From Burbank With Love
by atlee
Summary: What would happen if Ian Fleming wrote a "Chuck" prequel, starring Roan Montgomery. Though he'd probably manage to finish it a lot more quickly than I did.
1. Prologue

_Boy, are there a whole lot of things involved in this story that I don't own. "Chuck," about 20-odd different movies, and the common sense not to actual write this are just a few of them._

**From ****Burbank**** With Love**

**Prologue**

"Hey, Ellie."

Stepping inside the house, Chuck's sister glanced around with her usual look of amused disappointment. Ellie didn't say anything though; as much as she'd hoped that cohabitating with a woman would have improved his decorating sense, she'd come to accept defeat. Instead she walked over to the living room, a spiral notebook in her hands.

"So what's up?" Chuck asked, once his sister had made herself comfortable.

"The other day, Mom dropped off some stuff," Ellie replied. "Some of dad's things."

"Really?" Chuck said in surprise. As far as he'd been able to tell, Stephen Bartowski had owned nothing that wasn't directly related to surveillance, technology, and his copious notes about the government, spying, and Mary Bartowski.

"I know, I was surprised too. But there were photo albums, his old record collection…" Ellie rolled her eyes. They could both remember their father's fondness for Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. "A whole bunch of stuff. I've gone through a lot of it, but I'm not quite done yet."

Chuck nodded. Being home with a newborn with a near pathological aversion to sleep doesn't give one a whole lot of spare time.

"Then there's this." Ellie handed the notebook to Chuck.

"What is it?" Chuck asked curiously.

"I don't know. I only looked at the first page, but I think it's spy-related. I figured you might want to give it to Sarah, so she can turn it in to whoever should have it."

"Oh." Chuck wasn't sure what to think. His father wasn't the type to leave anything important lying around. Normally, anything would go through a shredder, with the remnants (and the shredder itself) incinerated afterwards.

He flipped through a page or two. It certainly did _seem_ spy-related, though he didn't seem to recognize the names listed. Rather than the usual semi-encoded notes that Chuck had previously read from his father's records, this seemed different, almost flowery.

Chuck didn't recognize any of the names in the book at first, but then he felt the familiar rush hit his head like a tractor-trailer. Rather than visualizingCIAdocuments, though, all he saw was a different name. One he recognized.

"Are you ok?" he heard Ellie ask.

"Yeah," he reassured her, realizing a flash must look strange to her. "Late night at the Buy More. I don't know if these notes are important," he finally said, "but I'll see what I can do."

"Good," Ellie said. "I figured it wasn't for me, and I know you're better at keeping secrets than I am."

Chuck raised an eyebrow at the mild rebuke, and Ellie looked embarrassed. "Sorry, Chuck, I didn't mean that. I'm just tired. Clara woke me up three times last night."

"It's ok, Ellie," Chuck gave his sister a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

Ellie stood up. "Well I have to get back to 's got to leave for the hospital for a few minutes, so my break's over. Come by and see the pictures when you get the chance, huh?" She gave Chuck a hug, and headed back to her bungalow.

Once Ellie had gone, Chuck walked into the kitchen to get another cup of coffee. Sarah had gone in for an early meeting, and Morgan was still asleep, so the place was quiet. He figured he'd at least have time to peruse the first few pages. Sitting down at the table, he flipped through the notebook.

As he continued reading, he'd occasionally feel another flash, revealing a real name behind the one his father had written on the page. He wasn't surprised that his father would go to great lengths for secrecy. That was who Stephen Bartowski was. He just wasn't sure why he'd put some sort of 'decoder ring' for the names in the Intersect. Somehow the story must be important.

Chuck decided that he would have to continue studying his father's tale. After awhile, the flashes began to lessen, and he immediately began to see the actual names rather than the ones on the page. The more he read, the more drawn in to his father's words he became. Eventually, he looked up at the counter. He was going to need another pot of coffee.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1 – The Pre-Title Sequence**

_February 16, 1977__, __9:15__, AM. __Miami__, __FL_

The delivery man was nervous. He couldn't help it. Any transaction was a tense situation to him, and usually they didn't involve black market arms. His boss was paying him well, but anyone who was interested in the product he was trafficking in probably didn't take bad news well.

Not even the setting of the transaction calmed the man's nerves. Hotel room suites were nice, of course, but they didn't have a lot of exits. Especially when those suites were on the 37th floor.

The current resident of the suite, the other party to the transaction, didn't show any nerves at all. In fact, he was lounging on a chair, dressed in the one of the hotel's monogrammed bathrobe. Two days' worth of stubble descended from his sideburns, and his shaggy hair was slightly unkempt. Clearly, he didn't dress for his meetings. His three associates, however, did, as their finely tailored suits attested. Those suit jackets didn't hide the firearms holstered underneath, though.

"That's a small case, Jack," the bathrobe-clad man said to the other. Of course, his name wasn't Jack, but the courier wasn't about to object. "Hardly what I ordered."

"They're in a safe place. The man I represent merely wanted to show you an example of what we have to offer." The delivery man put the case on a table, trying to ignore the mess of white powder scattered all over. He opened the case, and nodded for the other to examine it.

"Not bad," Bathrobe said, removing the firearm from the case. He pointed it at the seller, causing him to nearly lose his breakfast. Bathrobe chuckled, and put the machine gun down. "99 more of these, right?"

"In a safe place," the courier repeated. "Once we complete the transaction, I will take you to them."

Bathrobe frowned. "And what exactly do you take me for? In case you haven't noticed, I've got more friends here than you do." Twitchy looked around, and saw the three other men on the room slowly approach him, hands at their holsters.

Twitchy backed away slowly, struggling to move his legs. He was stopped in his tracks, though, when he heard the door open. Glancing over he saw a young woman, barely into her twenties, look around curiously. Momentarily, the girl's beauty took the courier's attention away from the situation. As did the fact that she was only wearing a towel.

"Honey, what's going on?" the girl asked Bathrobe.

"Just a little business, Pumpkin. I'll be done in a moment, then we can head down to the pool. Why don't you just go back in the bedroom and make yourself pretty."

The girl shrugged. "Ok." Barely giving the courier or the guards any interest, she headed back into the other room.

Bathrobe watched her leave, then turned back to the courier. A second later, he let out another high-pitched laugh. "Oh man, you should see the look on your face! You are so scared, you're twitchy all over. I think I'll call you that. Relax Twitchy, we can work something out. In fact," he snapped his finger and one of the guards came up to him. "My wallet."

After the guard rummaged through the hotel room drawers for a few moments, the wallet was found, and handed over to the robe-clad man. "Here you go, Twitchy. You made a down payment as you say, here's mine." He held a ten dollar bill out to the courier.

Twitchy stared at the bill for a moment, then across at the three burly guards. Finally, he reluctantly grabbed the money.

Bathrobe clapped his hands. "Alright!" He laughed again, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Ah perfect timing! We can celebrate with breakfast."

One of the armed guards opened the door, and the waiter wheeled in the tray. "Your order, sir."

"Oh great," Bathrobe leapt to his feet. He leaned over as the waiter removed the silver lid from the tray.

"Hey, this isn't eggs benedict."

"Nope," the waited said, as he smashed the tray into Bathrobe's face. Seeing one of the armed men approaching, he grabbed the serving fork and thrust it into his arm.

The guard dropped the gun just as the other two men were preparing to fire. The waiter dove to the ground, grabbing the loose firearm. A second later, two shots were fired, each hitting a guard in the chest.

The waiter turned to see Twitchy standing there, like a deer caught in headlights. "How are you?" the waiter asked, his voice laced with amusement. When the courier didn't respond, the waiter sighed and knocked him over the head with the butt of the gun.

"Freeze, dirtbag!"

The waiter looked over to see Bathrobe, aiming the machine gun at him. "Really?" he asked.

"You're not going anywhere, Man!" Bathrobe waved the machine gun.

The waiter slowly moved forward. "What are you doing?" Bathrobe demanded, his voice quivering slightly.

"I'm sure we can discuss this. No need for any further violence."

"Stop moving!" Bathrobe began to back up, despite his advantage. After a few steps, he was standing on the hotel room balcony.

"Ok," the waiter said reassuringly, hands in the air. He dropped his gun to the ground. "We can just talk."

"Talk? Are you insane? What could we have to talk about?"

"Well, for one thing," the waiter said, "that the tie on your bathrobe is loose." In a blur of movement, he reached out and tugged at the tie on the robe, and pulled forward. The other man tried to reach out to balance himself. The waiter reached out his hand, but rather than steady the other, he grabbed the machine gun. Unable to gain his footing, the arms dealer fell backward. With a cry, he fell over the balcony railing.

The waiter returned the machine gun to its case. As he was moving past the breakfast cart, he paused, grabbed a handful of Belgian waffle and shoved it into his mouth. "Not bad."

"Hey, where is Carl?"

The waiter turned to see the young woman standing in the bedroom doorway, a towel still wrapped around her. She didn't seem to notice the men on the ground, as she focused her attention on the waiter.

"Oh, he had an early flight."

The girl thought about this for a moment, but didn't reply. "Who are you?" she finally asked.

"The name is Montgomery. Roan Montgomery."

"Oh." The girl looked around briefly. "Is that breakfast?"

"Why yes, it is." Roan approached the girl. "But before we eat, I should clean up a bit." He yanked the towel away. "There, much better. Now, maybe we should work on the bedroom first."

The girl giggled. "Oh, Roan."

* * *

><p><em>February 4, 2011<em>_. __9:45 AM__, __Echo Park__, __CA_

_"Nobody does it better_

_Makes me feel sad for the rest_

_Nobody does it half as good as you_

_Baby, you're the best."_

Chuck tried to ignore the noise as long as he could, before he finally dropped the notebook back onto the kitchen table and headed down the hallway. The music gradually got louder until he reached Morgan's room. The door was partially open, so Chuck headed inside.

Chuck could only see a silhouette dancing behind the folded screen, which as far as he was concerned, was more than enough. Unfortunately, the screen didn't block the sound of his best friend singing along to the music. He cleared his throat meaningfully.

"Oh hey, Chuck," Morgan peeked his head from behind the screen. "Good morning."

"Uh sure, buddy. I don't suppose you could, you know, turn the sound down a bit."

"Oh sorry about that." He reached over to his iPod, and adjusted the volume. "Ever since I got involved in this whole spy thing, I've come to realize how much these songs get you pumped up. Totally gets me ready for the day."

"I see," Chuck replied, trying not to look directly at his friend. "Nice partition."

"Thanks. Picked it up at a yard sale."

"I see." Finally, Chuck couldn't hold back his curiosity. "Um Morgan, are you wearing a unitard?"

"It's Alex's," Morgan replied. "Doesn't restrict your movement at all. You should get one."

"Yeah, that may not happen. Just keep it a little quieter."

"Sure thing. I'll see you at the Buy More later?"

"Yup." As Chuck was turning to head back to the kitchen, he stopped and added, "Whatever you do, don't let Casey ever see you in that."

Morgan paused for a moment. "Hmm. You're probably right about that."

Shaking his head, Chuck returned to the kitchen, and found where he had left off in the notebook.

* * *

><p><em>So, first off, I have to say that this not exactly a spoof, so much as an homage to James Bond. If there's one thing in this world that's been over-spoofed, it's the James Bond movies, so I'm trying to avoid an Austin Powers type take on this. I'll probably fail in that, of course. My goal is to kind of… homage-ify the Bond flicks, both from a direct story standpoint using the 70's plot, and from Chuck's own point-of-view. We'll see how it works. Usually, I wind up crumbling under the weight of my own ambition.<em>

_The prequel part will be fun too. I want to look at some of the older characters from a different viewpoint, but I don't want to be one of those prequels that keep throwing characters in for no useful purpose *Cough, Star Wars, Cough*. So…no baby Casey._

_So have I piqued everyone's interest? Please let me know if you like the premise. I'm hoping to make this a "spot the reference" kind of thing, so hopefully that will be kinda fun, even if the story doesn't hold up._

_As always, reviews are greatly welcome!_


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2. The Set-Up**

_February 17, 1977__, __9 PM__. London_

Simon Warner sighed in relief as he entered his hotel room. Tossing his tie aside, he sunk into the considerably sized armchair and put his feet up. A day of meetings was bad enough. A 14-hour day full of very tense, divisive meetings was worse. He doubted they would come to much, but there was always a chance. And that chance, as tiny as it was, could remake the world entirely.

He stood up, and headed over to the hotel phone. "Room service, could you send me up a bottle of scotch. Two glasses, please," he remembered to add. After all, company would be coming soon.

It was a shame, really, Simon thought to himself. As historic as these meetings were, they were completely shrouded in secrecy. The world would never know about his hard work, even if it ended in success. Or at least not for many years, and then he'd be dead and gone, and unable to reap the benefits.

Not that he was only in it for the glory, of course. His whole career had been devoted to the greater good, and he'd never lost sight of that, no matter where his job took him. Still, he thought, thinking of his upcoming rendezvous, spending all his time traveling did have his benefits.

Warner was so deep in these thoughts that he never noticed the soft hissing until it was too late.

* * *

><p><em>February 18, 1977<em>_, __10:30 AM__. __Langley__, __VA_

Agent Roan Montgomery whistled along with the music, the strains of 'The Girl from Ipanema' bouncing off the walls. At least that's what he was whistling, he wasn't actually sure what song was being piped into the elevator. Nor did he care. The song helped remind him of the warmth back in Miami, rather than the relative cold of aWashington,DCwinter.

Not that it was the warm weather ofMiamithat he was remembering.

Still, memories are meant to be fleeting, and he'd have to replace them with new ones as soon as his morning meeting with the CIA director was done. It wouldn't be too difficult, after all. He knew plenty of women in DC. He knew plenty of women everywhere.

He did not know the Director's current receptionist, however. At least not yet. He'd have to change that, he decided as he studied her briefly. Red hair tied back, dressed in a wide-collared white blouse buttoned close to the top. But Roan caught a faint whiff of perfume. She clearly wanted to be seen as efficient, but wasn't quite willing to hide her looks.

"May I help you?" the girl asked, somewhat brusquely.

Roan untied his scarf, and tossed it toward the hat rack. The scarf landed a hook, and hung there snugly. "Agent Montgomery, Roan Montgomery, at your service. And you are," he glanced at the nameplate, "Miss Spare Change?"

"It's Sparchange," the girl corrected, placing an accent on the not silent vowel at the end. "It's French."

"Ah, well then," Roan said, leaning up to the desk, "what do you say you surrender to me later this evening?"

The girl frowned. "Does insulting a woman's ethnic heritage ever work for you?"

Roan shrugged. "It depends. For Swedish, Jamaican, and Dutch women, usually. For Germans, Greeks and Italians, almost never." He leaned further in. "On the French, always."

The girl's returning gaze was momentarily frosty, until a slow smile crept on her face. "You're late, Agent Montgomery. He's been waiting for you."

* * *

><p>"It's about damn time, Montgomery."<p>

The Director didn't look up as he said this, instead keeping his focus on the stacks of papers on his desk. As always, the Director was dressed in his crisply-ironed uniform, with only a few more hints of gray in his thought he noticed a few wrinkles on the Director's face as well, probably the result of his never smiling.

Roan sat down at the office's conference table. "It's good to see you as well, Director."

The Director grunted. "Fortunately for you, being on time wouldn't have made any actual difference. We seem to be having technical difficulties this morning." Roan followed the Director's baleful expression and saw a young man in the back of the room fumbling with a slide projector. He was young, dressed in a rumpled suit. He looked like he should be selling encyclopedias door-to-door rather than being present at a high-level CIA meeting.

The other man in the room looked a bit more in place, though he didn't seem to be military. Already seated at the table, he glanced at Roan with some curiosity. He was about the same age as the Director, but appeared to be interested in hiding it, as his hair looks like it had recently been dyed. However, he seemed to be nearly as nervous as the other man. Only the Director seemed relatively calm. That wasn't a surprise. Roan had only seen his boss get angry three times, and for two of them he'd been the direct cause.

"Ok," Roan heard the young man in the back of the room say, and a moment later the lights dimmed. An image of an older man, dressed in a bland suit, appeared on the wall.

"Looks like the life of the party," Roan remarked.

"His name is Simon Warner," the Director said, ignoring Agent Montgomery. "He was found dead in his hotel room in London last night."

"Really?" Roan voice displayed the requisite level of solemnity, though he still wasn't clear as to why this was important to them.

"Warner was an emissary of the Secretary of State," the Director explained, as if sensing Roan's confusion. "For the past two months, he's been engaging in some under-the-table meetings with representatives from the Soviet Union."

"Ah," Montgomery said, "so he's a spy."

"You misunderstand, Agent Montgomery. He was there at the behest of the President. The meetings were diplomatic in nature."

Now Roan was beginning to see the interest. "So this was some attempt to put a thaw in the Cold War? Then I'm guessing that there are some members of the Evil Empire that don't like the idea of making nice with the US." Some here as well, Roan thought, but didn't say out loud. There was a reason these meetings were so secret. There would be plenty of hardliners on both sides that wouldn't like the idea.

Instead, he asked, "How did Warner die?"

"_Officially_, he died of a massive heart attack."

Roan didn't miss the Director's stress on his first word. "But unofficially?"

"An excellent question." It was the first words the third man at the table had spoken. Roan had almost forgotten he was there.

"Agent Montgomery, this is Dr. Hargrove. He's with our chemical weapons department."

Roan smiled briefly. As far as anyone knew, they didn't have a chemical weapons department.

"For some time now," Dr. Hargrove resumed speaking, "we've suspected the Soviets have been developing certain specialized weapons. Something called Klebichok agents." He nodded to the back of the room, and after a momentary fumbling from the assistant, the slide on the wall shifted. Now Roan found himself staring at an odd maze of Cs, Hs, and Ps.

"That's the chemical formula, or at least part of it. We haven't been able to isolate the entire structure. But here's what we do know. It's odorless, and dissipates so quickly in the atmosphere that it's almost impossible to detect. And it's completely lethal."

"And I'm guessing the effects look like a heart attack," Roan spoke up.

"Exactly."

"But how can you be so sure? I mean this guy didn't look that young, and he was in a high-pressure situation, from the sound of things. Maybe he did actually have a heart attack."

"We thought of that as well," the Director said. "The only thing is, it's not the first heart attack that has happened at these meetings."

* * *

><p>"So," Roan said, leaning back in his chair, "You want me to go to London and have a look around. See if we can find our artichoke…"<p>

"Klebichok."

"Klebichok poisoner," Roan shrugged off the correction. "See if the Bolsheviks are behind it."

"Anyone with ties to the KGB, for starters. They would have ample motivation for putting an end to their little confab with us." From his tone, Roan could sense exactly how the Director felt about the diplomatic effort.

"When do you want me to go?"

"There's a plane ready to depart in 90 minutes. So no time for flirting with my secretary," the Director added pointedly. "But before you leave, go down to the equipment bay on the third floor."

"Got it, Sir." Roan said, standing up.

"Good luck, Agent Montgomery. And don't go getting yourself poisoned."

* * *

><p><em>February 4, 2011<em>_. 10:15 AM, Echo Park, CA_

It wasn't until the fourth knock that Chuck finally dropped the notebook onto the table and headed to the door.

"About damn time," Casey said once the door had been opened. "What the hell are you doing in there?"

"Uh, comic book," Chuck responded, figuring that would end any further questioning.

"Whatever. Here, take this."

Chuck glanced down at the envelope.

"For your eyes only, Bartowski. We've got a meeting at Castle in an hour."

"Really, a new mission? Cool. Think they'll send up someplace exotic?"

Casey grunted. "Job's not about where they send us. It's about finding bad guys and hitting them as hard as you can."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a poet at heart, Casey?"

"Just be there in an hour, Bartowski." With that, Casey turned around and headed back out the door.

Chuck glanced at the envelope momentarily, then headed back to the kitchen and grabbed the notebook. He should still have a good thirty minutes of reading before the briefing.

* * *

><p><em>I was worried that the title "From <em>_Burbank__ With Love" would have been used in an earlier fanfic. Turns out, it wasn't. It turns out it was used for an episode of 'Animaniacs' though. Still, I liked it better than "You Only Flash Twice." And obviously "Moonflasher" would have its own set of issues._


	4. Chapter 3

_I don't own "Chuck." _

_I also don't own "James Bond." I don't think anybody actually knows who does._

**Chapter 3. "Q" is for Quality**

_February 18, 1977, 11:25 AM. Langley, VA_

After a few minutes of strategic flirting with Miss Sparchange, Roan headed down to the CIA's equipment bay. He didn't particularly want to spend a large amount of time there. Sure, some of the gadgets they seemed to have down there were interesting, but the techies that built them were not. The whole place had the pungent odors of bad coffee, old pizza, and what Roan guessed was sexual frustration emanating from it.

Still, he couldn't go off to London empty-handed, and he _was_ supposed to pick up some additional background information about the mission. Roan was a professional, and would do whatever it took to do the job right. He might even have time to read through the info on the plane, depending on the quality of the stewardesses.

He stepped off the elevator at the third floor, still whistling to himself. As usual, the area was dimly lit by fluorescent lighting. Outside of that telltale hum coming from overhead, the place was quiet though. Doctor Llewelyn, the head equipment specialist, was nowhere to be seen.

"Ah, Agent Montgomery. There you are."

Roan turned around. Instead of seeing the gray hair of Dr. Llewelyn, though, he recognized the young man from the briefing. He still wore the wrinkled suit he'd had on earlier, but his tie was gone - either discarded somewhere or swallowed up by the wide collar of his shirt. His shoulders were slightly less drooped, and he seemed more relaxed. Apparently, he was much more at home in a laboratory then surrounded by high-ranking officials.

"Dr. L retired," the man seemed to guess what Roan was thinking. "I'm stepping in now. Name's Steven Bartowski. My friends call me Steve."

"Ok, Agent Bartowski…"

"Actually, I'm not an agent," the man responded, seeming not to notice the snub. "I'm a civilian."

Roan's face must have betrayed his surprise. "It's a new thing the government's trying out," Steve explained. "Bringing in private companies and individuals to help with some projects. Saves money. Don't worry, we go through a pretty heavy screening progress. So I can assure you I'm not a Russian spy."

"Oh, I believe that." Roan studied the younger man. "So you're here to get me ready for the mission?"

"Oh, right." Steve turned around and headed over to a table covered with a jumble of papers, transistors, tools, and what appeared to be a lava lamp. At the other end of the table, safely away from the mess, was a computer terminal. "Now where's that cassette?" he mumbled, upturning various printouts and notebooks. "Ah." He shoved the tape into the small terminal.

"This should have everything you need to know about the meetings in London, Simon Warner, and the Klebichok agents. Also, what we know about possible KGB agents that might have an interested in putting an end to the negotiations. I color-coded their names based on how much they hate us. Green for mild antipathy, yellow if they'd happily take you out if given the chance, and red for those that would shoot through their grandmother if you were standing behind her."

"Great." The boy was enthusiastic at least, Roan had to admit.

"It's just printing now." A screeching sound from the back of the room followed this statement, and Steve went over to grab the pages. "Here you go," he said as he handed them to Roan.

"This was never really where I figured I'd be a year ago," Steve went on while Roan flipped through the pages. "Teddy and I – Ted's my business partner – always figured we wanted to work for ourselves, you know. This kind of work oughta help us get started, though. Then I can really get to the stuff I want to work on."

Roan tuned out the other man as he went on about something he called neuromechanical engineering. Llewellyn had never talked this much. Instead he started looking around the room, pausing at what appeared to be a human brain, with various sections painted into different colors. "Be careful with that!" he heard a shout just as he was reaching for it.

"That's just a little hobby of mine, nothing important." Steve's hand was on his forehead, pushing his hair into an unruly mop. "It's not really anything that's going to help you with your mission," he added, more calmly.

"Ok then. Do you have anything that will?"

* * *

><p>"Hmm," Steve said, rummaging through the room. "They didn't give me a whole lot of time to prepare. Maybe over here." He opened a closet door, and Roan winced at the crashing sound that came a moment later. "What do you have in mind?"<p>

"Well, for one of my last missions, I got a briefcase with 40 rounds of ammo, tear gas, and a knife hidden inside."

"Huh, that does sound cool. Unfortunately, the only briefcase here is mine, and the only thing hidden inside is a ham sandwich. How about this?" He returned, carrying a small flat box, and a shiny round object.

Roan took the round item, and studied it intently. It was a flat disc, with a small hole in the middle. "Seems a bit dull for a weapon," he said thoughtfully.

"It's not a weapon," Steve explained. "It's the future. On that little disc, you can store over an hour of recordings."

"Ah, surveillance."

"Not exactly." Steve motioned to the box. "This only has the playback option. To record, you need something much larger."

"Then what's the point?"

"Music!" Steve responded. "I loaded this with some of the best: 'Seasons in the Sun', 'Billy, Don't be a Hero', "Afternoon Delight.'…"

"Well, at least it will come in handy if I need to interrogate someone." Clearly, Steve Bartowski was a couple of years behind in the music world.

"Anyway, here's the disc, the box, and a set of headphones." Seeing Roan's own case on the floor, Steve opened it and placed the items inside.

"Don't you have anything useful? Say, a jetpack or something?"

"I wish! It would make getting here a lot easier, I'll tell you. I don't know how people can stand to live around here. Hold on," Steve snapped his fingers in excitement. He opened a drawer from the desk across from the table, and retrieved a pair of small silver objects. "I do have these."

"Cuff links?"

"Yup. They shoot this tiny little darts. They should incapacitate someone in seconds. At least if they're under 180 pounds. More than that, I can't guarantee anything."

* * *

><p><em>February 18, 1977, 12:45 AM. Andrews Air Force Base, MD<em>

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Montgomery?"

A smile slowly crept onto Roan's face as he looked up at the smoldering eyes of the stewardess. It was nice to know that the CIA still didn't spare any expense on their private jets.

"As a matter of fact," he said giving her the full once over, "how about a Tom Collins? Exactly two ice cubes, freshly squeezed lemon juice, and one Marischino cherry – as long as it was harvested from the state of Washington in the past two months."

"Sure thing, Mr. Montgomery."

Roan watched the stewardess walk back up the airplane's aisle, and turned back to his information packet. Once he'd finally managed to extricate himself from the talkative techie, the trip to the Air Force Base had gone pretty quickly. The drive had been too quick for him to even glance at what he'd been given, and the plane had left on time. So, he figured he should make time now. Generally, Roan was more of an improviser than a planner, but in this case it wouldn't hurt to be ready.

He flipped through the pages that Bartowski had handed him. Most of the details on the Klebichok agent weren't of much interest to him. Chemistry wasn't his favorite subject. Still, the description of its effect on people was eye-opening. Death was close to instantaneous, but not instantaneous enough, judging by the description of its effects. If this is what caused the death of Simon Warner, he felt bad for the guy.

Roan perused the enclosed photographs with greater interest. They were grainy and shadowy, as they had been taken at great distances from their targets. But they did show the faces of a few suspected KGB agents seen in England in the last few months. Most of them looked only vaguely familiar to Roan. Then again, KGB all seemed to fit a type – swarthy, scowling, and with body odor that practically jumped out of the picture.

He only recognized one face - Alexis Romanova. He had a fearsome reputation, having been linked to the deaths of several American and British spies. Bartowski could have given him his very own color on his scale of hatred. Pure black. If there was a chief suspect, Romanova would have to be it.

"I'm afraid we're out of gin, Mr. Montgomery." Roan looked up at the stewardess, who was giving him an apologetic look. "I brought you a vodka martini, if that's ok."

Roan studied the wide-rimmed glass in disappointment. So much for the CIA not sparing any expense. He'd have to make the best of it, he supposed.

"I hear there's going to be some turbulence," he said, grabbing the stewardess by the waist and pulling her close. "You shouldn't be on your feet."

Studying could wait.

* * *

><p><em>February 4, 2011. 1:30 PM, Burbank, CA<em>

"Surveillance?"

"You have something better to do, Agent Bartowski?" General Beckman asked with a raised eyebrow.

Chuck wasn't about to bring up his father's notes, especially now that it had given him a glimpse at Orion's humble beginnings in the spy world. The General would probably redact the whole thing, and hide in some warehouse in DC, probably underneath the Ark of the Covenant.

"It's just…well, there's…" Chuck could see Casey glaring at him out of the corner of his eye, while Sarah gave him a look of concern.

"…a lot of downtime."

"Yes, I know Mr. Bartowski," the General said drily. "Perhaps you can take advantage of that, and catch up on some of the paperwork you need to fill out about the Volkoff affair." With that, the conference ended.

Chuck groaned inwardly. He'd hated the paperwork when it was just about completing Nerd Herd runs. It wasn't any better when working for the CIA.

"Idiot," Casey grumbled. "You know, Bartowski, sometimes I wonder why don't just knock the living daylights out of you."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "I think it's because of my natural charm and charisma, Casey."

Casey stalked off, muttering to himself. "He seems grumpier than usual," Chuck remarked.

"I don't think he's likes stakeouts much either," Sarah replied, before giving Chuck a long look. "Chuck, are you ok? It seems like you've been preoccupied by something lately."

Chuck hesitated before responding. Reading what his father had left him was something Chuck wanted to do himself. It felt like it gave him a chance to know his father in a way he never had before. Before he'd been weighed down by the pressures he'd put on himself. The pressures of the Intersect.

But, he knew he had made a mistake the last time he'd kept his family secrets from Sarah. Now that they were engaged, they should be sharing everything. And he knew he didn't want her worrying about him. So, he made up his mind.

"Sarah, I have something I want to show you."

* * *

><p><em>I know it's a bit early for this particular reference, but given the recent news:<em>

"_**Chuck" will return in**_

_**Season 5**_


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4. On Her Majesty's Secret Service's Nerves**

_February 19, 1977, 2:15 AM. Outside London._**  
><strong>

Roan stepped off the plane and scanned the darkened runway. Given the time of night, it wasn't surprising that there was hardly anybody there. Of course, this wasn't a public airport, so one would hardly expect the usual throng of tourists, even if it wasn't 2 AM.

The airstrip belonged to Britain's department of counter-intelligence. According to Roan's instructions, he was to find a car waiting for him, and drive into London. The next morning, he'd be meeting with the team investigating Warner's death. Unfortunately, in addition to the lack of people waiting for him, there was also a lack of cars.

"Agent Montgomery?"

Roan turned around and perked up when he saw the woman approaching him. Her pale skin glowed in the lights of the nearby gate hangar, with dark curly hair partially covered by a small red cap. She looked like she would be completely at home at a croquet match, which was fine by Roan. He'd been to some pretty wild croquet matches in his day. "I'm Montgomery," he said in response.

"My name is Charlotte. I was sent here to pick you up," she explained in proper British annunciation. "We didn't have a car ready for you, so I'll take you to the hotel."

"Excellent," Roan replied, grabbing his bags. "I can't think of a better place for us to go." He followed her to the edge of the airstrip, where a small blue MG was parked. "Not bad. I see MI-5 still pays well."

"Hardly," the woman responded. "At least for me. I'm rather low on the totem pole, I'm afraid."

"Hmm." Roan hadn't been expecting a ticker-tape parade at his arrival, but a bit more than a low-level lackey would have been nice. She probably didn't even have the clearance to know about the case.

"I suspect you'd like an update on the investigation," the woman said after the car had reached the highway. "Warner was examined this afternoon, and the cause of death appears to be a heart attack. We didn't see any sign of forcible entry in the hotel room."

"I see."

"It did look like Warner was expecting a visitor last night. He'd ordered a bottle of scotch, and two glasses. The room service waiter bringing it up found the body a few minutes later."

"Interesting." Scotch was more of a drink for a late-night meeting than a romantic rendezvous. Maybe the killer had shown up first, and brought the Klebichov agent with him. "Any Soviets seen in the area?"

"As part of our security for the meetings, we've kept a close eye on any suspected KGB agents. We haven't noticed anyone in the vicinity of the hotel."

Roan decided on another line of questioning. "I was told that Warner wasn't the first person to die during these meetings."

"No, he wasn't." Charlotte kept her eyes on the road as she spoke. "There was another US emissary, an assistant to Warner who died in a car crash. Drove into a lorry on the opposite side of the road."

"Ah. Thrown off by the whole left-side-of-the-road thing?"

Charlotte didn't smile. "Unlikely. He was an experienced driver, and it was the middle of the afternoon. There was also a British agent with him, who presumably would have told him if he was on the wrong side of the road."

Thanks to the late hour, they entered London soon and were able to make their way to the hotel in little time. "This is where Warner died, and where you'll be staying."

"Wonderful," Roan said drily. "So, can I interest you in a night cap?"

The woman snorted. "You Americans are all the same. Never as charming as you think you are." She motioned toward the passenger door. "I suggest you get a good night's sleep, Agent Montgomery. I'll be here to pick you up at 8 tomorrow morning. You have a meeting with our head of security, and with the new leader of your American delegation at the meetings. Good night."

* * *

><p><em>February 19, 1977, 7:40 AM, London.<em>

A restful night's sleep was about the least thing Roan wanted from his nights. The British agent's rebuff had been surprising, but nothing to be too concerned about. He knew that his second impressions tended to be even better than his first.

Roan did take the opportunity to check out Warner's hotel room. Unfortunately, the place had been cleaned out pretty quickly. Clearly, the meetings were too secret to risk anything from getting leaked via curious maid staff. He'd have to speak to a few hotel employees when he had the chance. But no one was cleaning at 3 AM, so he decided to give sleeping a try.

Charlotte was waiting for him when he came down to the lobby the next morning. "You're late," she commented, arms enfolded.

"Proper grooming can't be rushed," he replied, receiving a snort from the British agent. Wasting no time, she led him out into the cold, windy air of the London morning. Roan briefly wondered why secret summits couldn't take place in the Caribbean.

"We'll be quicker walking," Charlotte commented. "Traffic's too thick this time of day. Now way we're getting through Trafalgar Square."

Roan shook his head. "This will never do." He glanced around, and noticed a police car at the end of the block. "Come on."

The young constable standing by the car was young, probably just starting out in his career. That would make it easier. "Excuse me," Roan said, easing into a British accent. "We need to get to MI-5 headquarters as quickly as possible. It's an emergency."

"I haven't heard anything," the constable rumbled.

Roan made a point of studying him with disdain. "I wouldn't think you would. Do you really think in a situation like this, one could risk taking the time to inform every rank-and-file bobby of what's going on?"

"Uh…"

"I suppose now you want me to tell you my life story while people's lives are at risk, do you? Or perhaps there's a school crossing guard around here we should clear it with first?"

The constable's expression was a combination of offended petulance and confusion. "Well, maybe not. But can I see some identification first?"

"We don't have time to…" Roan's protest was cut off when Charlotte reached over, showing her credentials.

"Ok, Agent Banginton. Come on!"

Roan and Charlotte hopped into the rear of the car, and a moment later they were off.

* * *

><p>What he may have lacked in critical thinking, the constable made up for in aggressive driving. They weaved their way through traffic, sending the occasional pedestrian into a torrent of 'bloody's and 'bollock's. Roan watched this enfold through the car window with only passing interest.<p>

"Bangington?" he asked Charlotte as they zipped through an intersection.

"Banginton," she corrected. "Why?"

"And Charlotte. I suppose you sometimes go by Lotty?"

The British agent frowned, but didn't reply.

Roan chuckled. "Lotty Bangington. I like it."

"_Banginton_," Charlotte retorted, "is a long-standing family name. Our family crest is one of the most recognized in Essex."

"I'm sure I'd love to see it," Roan replied drily.

"By the way, your accent needs some work," Charlotte commented. "You keep migrating from Kent to Cornwall mid-sentence."

"It got us here, didn't it," Roan replied, pointing to the building they were now parked in front of.

From the outside, it was clear that a lot of money had been spent on MI-5 headquarters. It gave off the usual air of class, while not standing out in a way that would cause anyone to look twice at it. To Roan, it just looked stuffy.

They quickly hopped out of the car, leaving the confused constable behind. "Wait! Is there something I can do?"

"Keep watch!" Roan responded in his best Cornwall/Kentonese. "Make sure nobody suspicious follows us!"

* * *

><p>There were two men waiting for them in the conference room upstairs. "Right on time," one of them said when they sat down. He was American, with an easy smile that appeared to have been built from hours of rehearsal. Even though that sort of skill was valuable among spies, Roan knew that wasn't his stock in trade, because he recognized him.<p>

"Mr. Felix," he said, shaking his hand. "And what is the senior Senator from New York doing here?"

"I've been asked by the president personally to oversee these negotiations. There has been some concern regarding the …turnover the project has experienced lately."

"That's one way to put it," Roan remarked.

"And the way we should continue to put it," the second man said gruffly. Unlike the other, he was clearly British. However, he didn't give off the smooth polish of an Eton or an Oxford graduate. Even though he seemed to be middle-aged, he still had the slight brutishness of someone who'd once spent much of his time using his fists.

"This is Terence Hamilton, who has been running security for the meetings," Charlotte introduced.

"Before we waste any of my time," Hamilton said before Roan could reach out his hand, "let me assure you that you are already wasting yours. Warner's death was a heart attack, pure and simple."

"My government would beg to differ," Roan replied calmly. He looked to the Senator, who shook his head.

"The President has assured me he has complete confidence in MI-5's security protocols, and with the coroner's examination of Warner. I'm afraid there was a miscommunication with the CIA."

Roan's eyes narrowed. He'd been around long enough to know that something wasn't right. "That simple? Given the nature of these meetings…"

"What these meetings are is historic. A chance to finally find some common ground with the Soviet Union. To put an end to 60 years of enmity."

And if things go well, a chance to put himself in the Oval Office, Roan thought. Like any politician, Felix was known for his ambition. Roan didn't have anything against politicians himself. He knew that not every solution required a gun or fist, and appreciated those that could find one through their words. But he didn't have the patience for it.

Unfortunately, this meant he'd have a better chance making his case to the Brit. "And what about Romanova?"

The burly man chuckled. "We know all about Alexis Romanova. He has gone anywhere without one of my men a step behind him. If he were to try anything, we'd know instantly. He didn't go anywhere near your hotel, and hasn't picked up any of your…Klebichov agent."

"If that actually exists," the Senator commented.

"Are you really sure?" Roan asked. "Romanova is a trained spy. He could have given your men the slip."

Hamilton stood up and leaned into Roan. "Are you telling me I can't do my job, Mate?"

Nonplussed, Roan turned back to Felix. "Perhaps I could talk to the Soviet delegation here?"

"Not a chance," Felix replied. "This negotiation is too important. I won't have some overly ambitious spook go all Rockford Files on things." The Senator released his grip on the table, and added, "Look, Agent Montgomery. I can understand why things look suspicious, but is a heart attack really all that shocking. Warner was facing a lot of pressure. It just got to him."

"And what about his visitor last night?" Roan asked.

"Maybe a way for him to relieve some of that stress," Hamilton rumbled. "Too bad she was too late." Clearly unwilling to spend any more time in the meeting, he added, "We've arranged for a plane back to DC tonight," Hamilton said. "I assure you we spared no luxury. You can drink as much as you want. Get your jollies with as many stewardesses as you want. Just be on that plane."

Roan resisted the urge to laugh. Clearly, Hamilton had read his dossier. He could see that nothing further could be gained from the meeting, and stood up. "Good day, gentlemen," he said, avoiding shaking hands with Hamilton and Felix, and quietly left the room.

* * *

><p>"So are you going to be on that plane?" Charlotte asked. As they left the meeting, they saw their constable chauffer was too busy hassling a couple of mohawk-coiffed passers-by, so they were now returning to the hotel in a taxi.<p>

"Sure," Roan said easily.

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you like. You people seem to be good at that."

"But you don't agree with them. About the heart attack?" Charlotte seemed genuinely curious.

"No," Roan responded with no hesitation.

After a second, "Neither do I."

Roan turned to her. "Are you telling me you're going to help me, Lottie?"

"Charlotte. And yes."

"Why?"

Charlotte looked out the window, watching the Thames go by, the silhouette of London Bridge in the hazy distance. "The car accident. The British agent that died in it."

"The one with the US emissary?"

"Right. He and I were…close."

* * *

><p><em>February 4, 2011<em>_. __2:40 PM__, __Burbank__, __CA_

"So what do you think?"

Sarah looked up from the notebook and studied the curiosity in her fiancée's eyes. "Well…"

"Seriously, Sarah."

"Ok, Chuck," she shrugged slightly. "I guess I'm not sure what this means. It's not exactly a believable description of a real mission. Are you sure you flashed on it?"

"Absolutely," Chuck replied. "That's Roan, all right."

"Hmm. And what about the girl?"

Chuck smirked. "You mean Lottie Banginton?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Why do all those spy stories always have those ridiculous names in them?"

"Hey, we can't all have exotic names like 'Walker,'" Chuck responded, somewhat defensively. "I mean, how exciting is that? Half the characters on TV are named Walker."

"Chuck," Sarah said patiently, "the reason I chose that name is to blend in. You don't want something so absurd that it screams 'I'm not who I say I am.' Do you really believe people would accept a Weinerlicious employee named Lottie Banginton?"

"I'm still struggling with the idea of people accepting a place called Weinerlicious." Seeing Sarah's unyielding expression, he said, "Fine. Point taken. And in any event, I checked Castle database, and there's no record of her anywhere."

"So maybe what you're reading isn't an actual case file," Sarah suggested.

"But I know it has to be important!" Chuck protested. "Why else would my father leave it for me?"

Sarah put a hand on Chuck's arm. "It _is_ important. It's important because it gives you a chance to connect to your father. A chance to get a picture of what he was like when he was younger." She paused momentarily. "Even if that picture is built around ridiculous names, unrealistic plotting, and a serious lack of description."

Chuck smiled, and hugged Sarah. "Have I ever told you how much you get me?"

Sarah waved her left hand at him, flashing her ring. "I thought I already got you. Diamonds are forever, right?" Her face turned serious again. "Just don't spend all night reading, ok? We are going to need you to pay attention at the stakeout. Even if rogue arms deals aren't as glamorous as Klebichov agents." She rolled her eyes again at the last part.

* * *

><p><em>I hope everyone's enjoying the "Spot the Bond reference" aspect of this story. Hopefully they aren't all as obvious as the one at the end of this chapter, but I've been working in stuff with the names of the movies, characters, gadgets, etc. Not sure how much further I can go before running out of ideas.<em>

_I haven't managed to completely check this, but as Chuck pointed out, I'm pretty sure there's a character named 'Walker' in every show on TV. I'm not sure if Chuck Norris started it, or what, but they're everywhere – especially in spy shows. _

_Of course, with the cancellation of 'Brothers and Sisters' and 'The Event' there are now about 15 different Walkers now looking for work. But Sarah Walker remains blissfully employed. Or at least the actress playing her is._

_Speaking of Sarah, don't let her do all of the reviewing in this story! She's tough man (though she makes some good points – and I'm not just saying that because she could kick my ass). _


	6. Chapter 5

_I don't own "Chuck", "James Bond", or the year 1977. They are owned by:_

_Chuck – NBC_

_James Bond – A complicated web of lawyers_

_1977 – George Lucas, Fleetwood Mac, and Reggie Jackson_

**Chapter 5. Dine Another Day**

_February 19, 1977, 6:30 PM. Soho._

"Ah, there you are."

Charlotte glanced around at the Soho rooftop that Roan had chosen for his surveillance, pausing momentarily at the bottle of wine chilling in an ice bucket. "I can see that you've managed to get yourself comfortable, while I was busy covering your tracks."

Roan gave her a quick smile. "No reason to work in discomfort. Everything's taken care of, then?"

Charlotte nodded. "It took a while to convince your pilot that there had been a change of plans, and he was supposed to fly back to Washington without you. But Hamilton will figure things out soon enough." She briefly glanced around at their surroundings. "So I hope it's worth it."

Roan looked back at the British agent. "I thought that you agreed with me about Warner's death."

"I do. I'm just not sure I'm trusting the right person to figure it out." Charlotte glanced back at the wine pointedly.

Roan merely shrugged in response. He hadn't asked Charlotte any further about her personal connection to the dead British agent. He just figured he could use any help from inside MI-5. Even if it was someone from currently working in its bottom rung. So, he had called her at the pay phone at the time they'd chosen, and told her to meet him at his current perch.

"So what have you found?" she asked.

"Well, Amasova is currently having dinner in the Indian restaurant across the way. Apparently, he prefers curry to borscht when given the chance," Roan replied.

Ilya Amasova, the head of the Soviet delegation for the peace talks, had been hard to find. Without the help of anyone within MI-5, he'd had to find alternate means. Fortunately, while Amasova himself was difficult to track down, the agents Hamilton had put in charge of guarding him had been much easier to locate. And then it had only taken a short amount of tailing to find the Russian himself.

"And that's all you have? A night out in a restaurant?" Charlotte didn't sound pleased.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Before the British agent could question him further the sound of footsteps came from behind. Charlotte quickly retrieved her firearm, but Roan put a hand on her shoulder. A moment later, a young Indian boy appeared, carrying a plastic bag. Roan took the bag and handed a couple of crisp bills to the boy, who quickly scampered away.

"You ordered food?" Charlotte asked in annoyance.

"Among other things." Roan pulled a box from the bag, then frowned as he studied its contents. "Hmm. Biryani."

"You don't want it? Maybe you can waste some more time and get something from the Chinese place down the street."

"I _do_ like it. I just don't like the message." Seeing Charlotte's confusion, Roan explained, "I asked for Tandoori chicken if Amasova was meeting someone at the restaurant. Biryani if he was alone."

"So that's it, then? A dead end?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Roan said again. "I suggest we wait." He grabbed a fork from the bag and took a bite of a piece of chicken. "Not bad," he commented, "I know a place or two in Bombay that do it better. But not bad."

Charlotte watched him eat for a moment, frustration still evident on her face. Finally, she sighed and asked, "Do you have another fork?"

* * *

><p>"You were quick with that piece back there. I take it you've had some firearm training?"<p>

Charlotte swallowed her bite of chicken, with some difficulty Roan noticed. Apparently, she didn't have much of a tolerance for spicy food. "I have. I wasn't always a glorified errand girl, you know. I used to be a pretty high-level agent. That was, until my recent demotion."

"And that had something to do with your… friend?" Roan asked, taking a sip of wine. "The one that was killed in the car crash?"

Charlotte's eyes narrowed. "You're a lot smarter than you let on, you know that Agent Montgomery?"

"It comes in handy sometimes. What are we spies, but actors with training in lethal combat?"

"Hmm. Well, you're right, about my demotion I mean. Let's just say I did something that was seen as unseemly for an agent of my stature. And here I am."

"Babysitting a spoiled American agent?"

"Exactly." Charlotte took another bite of the biryani and winced again.

Roan smiled. "Want some wine?"

"One of us should be clear-headed, if something actually happens." Despite her words, the British agent took a swig from the bottle.

Roan turned his attention back to the restaurant. Amasova had not yet left the restaurant, and the only patrons to enter the place were a couple of fashionable couples out for a night on the town. No one appeared that matched the description of Romanova or any other KGB agent.

"So why are you so interested in all of this anyway?" he heard Charlotte ask. "Are you worried that the negotiations might work, all the cloak and dagger stuff would come to an end, and you'd be out of a job if the Soviets become your friends?"

Roan chuckled. "I really don't care about the negotiations. What the politicians do is up to them. But I'm not really worried about spying becoming obsolete. People are still going to be people, and distrust comes naturally. If the Soviets become allies with the US, someone else will appear to take their place. Hello, who's this?"

Charlotte followed Roan's gaze. "Is that a fez?" she asked.

Sure enough, the man walking into the Indian restaurant was wearing a small cylindrical, red hat. "Not one of yours, I assume?"

Charlotte shook his head. Roan wasn't surprised. The British detail, including two men seated outside at a coffee shop, and a third that had been walking a corgi around the block continuously, had been easy to spot. Whoever this new man was, he wasn't working for Hamilton.

"Do you think it was Romanova?" Charlotte asked.

"I don't think so, though he did look Russian. We'll have to wait and see what he's up to."

They didn't have to wait for long. After about ten minutes, the strange man reappeared in the streets. He looked around briefly and glanced upwards, seemingly at Roan and Charlotte. He smiled briefly, then waved.

"Did he see us?" Charlotte asked in surprise.

"I don't know. But we should follow him." They climbed back down the fire escape and down onto the street. They managed to get a brief glimpse of the mysterious figure as he headed into traffic.

"We'd better hurry if we want to catch up." Charlotte followed Roan towards the street. Unfortunately, it was a busy intersection, and when they could finally see past the cars and various pedestrians, the man had disappeared.

"Damn."

"So now what?" Charlotte asked.

There probably wasn't any hope of catching up to the mystery man, especially if he'd caught a taxi or other form of transportation. Instead, he gave smirked at his companion. "I'm sure we could find something to do to pass the time, Lotty."

"It's Charlotte, and don't be an idiot. I was talking about Amasova. Do we speak with him?"

They returned to the restaurant and peered inside, but the Russian appeared to have left, as had the British agents watching him.

"I guess that puts an end to our surveillance," Charlotte remarked. "And before you make any more lewd suggestions. I really have to get home. It's late already."

Before Roan could ask why, the British agent had vanished down the street.

* * *

><p><em>February 19, 1977, 8:30 PM. London.<em>

Seeing nothing further to be done in Soho, Roan returned to his hotel. His instincts told him he was on the right trail; the man with the fez was part of what had happened to Warner. Romanova must have sent him. But was Amasova himself part of the plot? Had he acted to sabotage his own negotiations? After all, who knew what the Soviet interests were in all this. Were they really interested in peace, or was this some elaborate ploy?

As soon as he entered his room, he could feel that something wasn't right. Still, he didn't have time to unleash his firearm before the attack came. Struggling to breathe from the hands clasped tightly around his throat, he pushed himself to the case he had carried with him. The man's grip was tight, however, and he was unable to find the knife he had tucked away, so he frantically dug through his other belongings. Unfortunately, all he could find was the music-playing gadget that he had been given in DC.

He pulled the headphones out of the bag and wrapped the cord around the neck of the man behind him. He tugged on the cord until the man's grip around his own throat was released, and the assassin finally collapsed.

He wasn't given more than a moment to react, as a second man appeared from the shadows. This time, Roan grabbed the metal disc from the machine left in the bag, and snapped it in two. He whirled around, stabbing the assailant in the side with the sharp edge of the disc piece. The man fell.

"I'd say your song is over," Roan commented laconically. Apparently, he'd have to thank Steve Bartowski if he ever saw him again.

As Roan paused to catch his breath, he heard footsteps from out in the hallway. He rushed outside, but only managed to catch a glimpse of a fez-wearing silhouette. He made his way down to the lobby, but once again, the man had disappeared.

When he was back in his room, he looked over at the two bodies lying on the floor. He would need to do something about that. He headed over to the room phone and dialed.

"Yes, hello. This is room 1007. I'd like to order room service. Duck a l'Orange, a bottle of Chateau le Chiffre, 1967. Bring it up as soon as you can, and just leave the cart by the door."

Once he'd finished his meal, and cleaned up the mess, he did what any self-respecting spy what do under the situation. He fell asleep.

* * *

><p><em>February 20, 1977, 4:30 AM. London.<em>

It took almost of minute of insistent knocking for Roan to emerge from his slumber. Pushing himself to his feet, he grabbed a hotel robe and answered the door.

"Well, Lottie. It's a bit late, but I take it you've reconsidered my offer."

The British agent shook her head insistently. "It's Charl- oh, never mind that now! Just explain to me why your knife is currently in the chest of Ilya Amasova!"

* * *

><p><em>February 4, 2011. 7:00 PM, Echo Park, CA<em>

"…And there's this new QB we've just recruited. Awesome arm. They're already calling him 'The Man with the Golden Gun' on campus. And then the whole defensive line is returning next year, and…"

Chuck flashed his best, polite small as his brother-in-law droned on about UCLA's Rose Bowl prospects for the coming year. Even after all the years they'd known each other, Devon still didn't seem to have grasped that Chuck didn't care for football. Or maybe he had, but didn't want to give up on a captive audience.

From the other end of the table, Ellie gave her brother a sympathetic smile. She was probably used to it by now. Sarah, meanwhile, managed to show some interest. Chuck had been surprised to learn that his fiancée was something of a football fan. One of her many secrets, he guessed. She'd even gone to the trouble to explain what 'The Wildcat' was to him at one point. It had taken a while.

Despite the mild interest, nobody seemed to upset when a sharp cry came from the baby monitor. "It's your turn, honey," Ellie said immediately. Devon nodded and uttered an "Awesome," though his tone didn't seem to match the choice of word.

"I think you owe Clara one," Ellie remarked when Devon had gone upstairs.

Chuck nodded. "Do you think she accepts payment of the stuffed animal variety?"

"I'm sure we can work something out." Ellie glanced over at Chuck and Sarah. "Now, on to more important things. How're the wedding plans coming?"

After a half-hour of sisterly prodding, Chuck went to the kitchen to help with the clean-up. "So," Ellie spoke up, "Did you find anything useful from that notebook?"

"Still looking into it," Chuck replied. He'd read a little more in the afternoon, and had gone through the CIA database to learn more about the people mentioned in his father's notes. Amasova had been mentioned, but not Romanova. He even tried to search on the word 'fez' but naturally that came up blank.

Of course, the most complete database the CIA had was the one residing in his cranium, but other than revealing the actual names of the people as he read through the notebook, it was offering little in the way of information. He'd even written down Roan's name, but the flash that generated when he looked at it was full of redactions. Whether due to the top-secret nature of his missions, or just for the sake of common decency, Chuck wasn't sure.

"Is it all spy stuff then?" Ellie interrupted his thoughts. "Nothing about Dad himself?"

"Um, a little. In his younger days."

"Wow. Dad as a swinging bachelor," Ellie smiled as she finished drying off a platter. "Can't picture it."

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

"Hey, do you have time to look through the things I found?" Chuck's sister asked. "Maybe we can find his little black book or something."

Chuck was tempted, but he had a mission to go on. A dull, surveillance-based one, but a mission nonetheless. "Actually, Sarah and I have a late date tonight."

"Oh, ok," Ellie sounded disappointed but understanding. "You two make sure you keep the fires burning, now that you've sealed the deal. Can't let things grow stale."

Chuck hurried away before Ellie made any more, or detailed, suggestions.


	7. Chapter 6

_I don't own "Chuck" the Sex Pistols, or anything else involved with this story._

**Chapter 6. Taking it On the Roan**

_February 20, 1977__, __4:15 AM__, __London__._

"Give me one good reason why I should bring you in right now!"

Rather than answer Charlotte's question, Roan grabbed her and pulled her into his hotel room.

"There were three men in my hotel room when I returned last night," he explained once he'd shut the door. "They tried to kill me. One of them must have gotten away with my knife."

"And the other two?"

"Probably about to be found by some unlucky dishwasher downstairs. They aren't going to do us any further harm. But the third man…"

"Let me guess. Our friend from the restaurant?"

"Right. He must have killed Amasova, and used my knife to frame me." Seeing that Charlotte remained unconvinced, Roan added, "I told you, I had nothing against the Soviets or this negotiation. And you already told me you agreed about their being a cover-up."

Charlotte sighed. "Even if I do believe you, it doesn't matter. Hamilton knows you're still in London, and there's pressure from Moscow for your head. I don't think there's much chance that you can talk your way out of it."

"Well, we'll just have to fix things ourselves, then." Roan paused when he heard the distant sound of sirens, growing louder by the second.

"Did you really think they would have trouble finding you?" Charlotte asked. "Next time you want to stay in a country uninvited, try switching hotels!"

"Come on!" Roan quickly grabbed his things, and headed out the door.

"How do you plan to get out unnoticed?" Charlotte asked as they carefully made their way through the hallway.

"You go first," Roan suggested. "I'll find a way."

After the British agent reluctantly headed to the elevator, Roan made his way down the hallway, looking for an unlocked door. He needed to find something to help him escape, but he also didn't particularly want to enter an occupied room. Frightening an old woman out of her slumber was a good way to get found quickly.

Finally, he found the floor's laundry area. Entering quietly, he took a look around.

While nothing had been left in any of the machines, he did find some items that had apparently been sent out for dry cleaning and were now waiting to be returned. He first grabbed an old fur coat, and with a pair of scissors that had been left nearby, he lopped off a portion of it. The crudely-fashioned wig wasn't flattering, which was usually a no-no for Roan. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

The next part of his disguise was even more painful. It was brown, though the pockets and overly wide collar were both a sickly version of lime green. The pants legs were wide enough to potentially trip over. Or they would be, if the suit didn't happen to be a couple of sizes too small.

Swallowing his pride, he put on the suit, and left the laundry room. He found the last piece of his temporary camouflage in the hallway bathroom. As he grabbed the forgotten pair of glasses, he carefully avoided looking in the mirror. There were some things he just didn't need to see.

It took a couple of minutes to make his way down the stairwell, mainly due to the slight blurriness caused by the glasses. Finally, he reached the lobby. It was clear that the disguise had been necessary. There were several constables wandering about the hotel, including Roan's chauffer from the previous day. He carefully avoided eye contact, but kept his movements from being noticeably quick. It seemed like it took an hour, but he finally reached the exit door and made his way outside.

The MG was parked about a block away. Charlotte blinked when she saw him, then burst out laughing when she realized who was approaching her.

"It worked, didn't it," Roan growled, then motioned at the sports car. "You'd better stow that somewhere so nobody will find it and recognize it. I'll find a different car and meet you a t the end of the street in a few minutes."

Charlotte hadn't been happy about the grand theft auto, but Roan had argued that it was necessary, and they could always call in with an anonymous tip about the car when the crisis was over. She'd also argued that they didn't actually need to steal a Rolls Royce, but Roan wouldn't budge on that either.

"So where to?" Roan asked as he changed in the back of the Rolls. He'd noticed, to his amusement, that Charlotte had snuck a peek when she thought he hadn't been watching.

"You're not going to be able to get close to anybody in the Soviet delegation now. And I wouldn't count on being able to wander the streets of London unnoticed. We have eyes everywhere."

"Well, I hope you don't think I'm just going to give up."

Charlotte shook her head. "No, I wouldn't. But you're going to have to find a place to hide out for a bit."

"Any suggestions?"

"Not really. At the moment, you're probably safest at my place."

Roan raised an eyebrow. "Works for me."

"To stay out of sight," Charlotte added quickly. "You need someone to watch your back right now, and the easiest way to do that is on familiar ground."

"Whatever you say. You're the boss."

* * *

><p>They stopped at a small two-story building in Bayswater. While fairly old, the house was in good shape. Roan imagined that Charlotte must have some help with that, which said as much about her financial stability as the house itself. Perhaps she had family money.<p>

Charlotte climbed out of the Rolls and looked around the neighborhood. Seeing no one around, she motioned for Roan to follow.

As she pulled open the door, the sound of loud music crashed into the air.

"_I am an Anti-Christ_

_I am an anarchist,_

_Don't know what I want_

_But I know how to get it"_

"I guess my son's awake," Charlotte explained, looking slightly embarrassed. "Sorry about the music. He's going through a bit of a phase."

Once the door had closed, she yelled, "Cole, honey! Could you turn that down!"

A moment later the sound faded away, and a young boy walked in carrying a record jacket. The boy's sullen expression made him seem older, but judging by his size, Roan guessed that he couldn't have been more than eight or nine. He had dark hair, like his mother, with a pair glasses perched on his nose.

"You should get ready for school," Charlotte said to her son.

"What for?" the boy asked petulantly.

"Because I said so, that's why. And don't think I won't know if you skip either. Remember who I work for – I'm very good at recognizing lies."

The boy sighed, and stomped off to his room.

"He knows you're a spy?" Roan asked when the boy had disappeared.

Charlotte nodded. "I had to tell him, when…"

"The man who died in the car crash. The boy's father I guess?"

"Yes, Agent Barker was his father. Cole took it hard when he died." The British agent shook her head. "He's too young to be so angry." She looked back towards the boy's room, then said, "I guess I should at least make him some breakfast."

After Charlotte had left, Roan walked over and briefly examined the record Cole had left. A minute later, the young boy returned, now in a school uniform, a knapsack slung around his shoulder. Seeing Roan, he asked, "Who are you?"

"I'm working with your mother." The boy shrugged, seemingly uninterested. But then he asked, "You're American?"

"I am."

"I don't like Americans," Cole grumbled.

"I don't like a lot of them either. The Osmonds, for example. But some of us aren't so bad." He looked back down at the record. "Interesting music you have."

Cole shrugged. "Unlike most people, they tell the truth."

"I'm sure they do. Still, listening to this can only take you so far. I don't think it's going to be much of a hit with the ladies."

"I'm nine. What would I want with girls?"

Roan laughed. "If you're old enough to listen to the…" he peered closely at the record sleeve, "…Sex Pistols, you're old enough to appreciate the fairer sex."

"Whatever. You're just like my mom and everybody else," the boy grumbled.

"Actually, I'm pretty sure there's hardly anybody out there like me," Roan responded. "Look, you're a tough kid, I can see that. And I get that you're pissed off. Someone was taken from you. And everybody is so intent on 'protecting' you that they won't tell you the truth. But what would you really do if you found out what happened?"

"I'd find who was responsible. And get even."

Roan shook his head. As Charlotte had said, too young to be so angry. "Someday, maybe you can. But you need to give it time."

"And do what?"

"Go to school, for one thing. It's more useful than you think. And put some faith in your mother. There's a lot she could teach you. Certainly more than these guys can." He shook the record for effect.

Cole looked up at Roan for a while, his eyes narrowed in thought. Finally he asked, "What kind of music?"

"Well," Roan replied, "I'd suggest anything that you need to get dressed up to listen to. People will always trust somebody that appreciates classical music. Plus, it's always guaranteed to impress the ladies. It doesn't even matter if you, or they, like the music or not. Any type of music that can lead to dancing is also recommended."

"Dancing? Yuck!"

"Scoff now, but someday you'll thank me."

"Don't you think it's time to eat your breakfast and head off to school?" Both Roan and a still somewhat unconvinced Cole looked over to see Charlotte standing in the doorway, a half smile on her face.

Once the boy had left for the kitchen, she turned to Roan. "Are you really teaching my son how to hit on women?"

"You're never too young to learn the important things."

"Hmm. Well, at least he was listening to you, I guess. He never listens to me. And there hasn't really been a man in his life since his father died."

"Bye Mom! Bye Roan!" they heard from the other end of the house, and then the door slamming.

"No men in your life either?" Roan asked once the house was quiet again, inching closer to Charlotte.

"Well, that's hardly…" Charlotte backed up, flushing slightly. "Uh, what would you like for breakfast?" Charlotte asked, flushing slightly as she felt Roan looking at her. "I've got eggs, toast, tomato…"

"Well, to be honest, Charlotte, I'm not really hungry right now," he replied, leaning in to kiss her. The British agent stepped back momentarily before pushing her lips into his.

"Call me Lottie," she said breathlessly when she finally pulled herself away.

* * *

><p>"We just never found the time," Lottie answered Roan's question, stretching slightly underneath the bed covers. "First we were spending both of our times on missions, then Cole came along. Planning a wedding just wasn't practical."<p>

"And MI-5 wasn't too keen on it?"

"'It was unbecoming of a representative of Her Majesty's Secret Service,'" Lottie responded bitterly. "I was demoted. James wasn't, of course. A child out of wedlock was perfectly acceptable for a man at the agency, but a woman? So, you see, I wasn't always the lowly gofer you see now," she smiled as Roan put a hand on her bare shoulder.

"And then James and I started to fight a lot. He was rising through the ranks while I stayed where I was. I think we stayed together for Cole, but it probably wasn't doing him much good. Finally, he got this chance to serve as Head of Security for these negotiations."

"So Agent Barker had the job before Hamilton?"

"Right. Unfortunately, he was very hands-on…" She smiled at Roan's raised eyebrow. "On the job, I mean. So he was driving your American representative when the crash occurred."

"Which you don't believe was an accident."

"James had his faults. Driving wasn't one of them."

"And the MI-5 wasn't interested in investigating it?"

Lottie shrugged. "There was too much at stake. They didn't want to 'ruffle any feathers.' Oh, they were more than happy to give me a large settlement, but that was hush money more than anything. I wouldn't have taken it, but I needed the money for Cole's sake."

"Well, we'll find out who's behind his death soon enough," Roan commented. "I think everything that's happened in the last few days means they're getting desperate. So we're on the right track."

Lottie lay there thoughtful for a moment. "You may be right. But right now you still need to lay low."

"Oh believe me," Roan leered, leaning over her. "There's plenty of laying in my immediate future."

* * *

><p>An hour later, the phone rang. Roan watched Lottie get out of bed, and wrap a robe around herself. "It's probably the office. It's supposed to be my day off, but I'm sure things will change due to our current American threat." She gave him a smirk to punctuate her last comment.<p>

"Hello?" Roan listened from the bedroom while the British agent answered the phone. "Yes, Sir. Of course. I'll be right there."

"I was right," she said as she returned to the bedroom to dress. "I'll have to go in for a meeting."

"Any news?" Roan asked.

"I don't know. He wouldn't go into details. But you need to stay here a little while longer. The last thing I need is for you to be seen nearby, and then have to answer a lot of questions I'd rather not."

Roan raised his right hand. "I solemnly swear on the American flag, Old Glory herself. I will not stray from this bed."

Lottie gave him a long look. "Please take this seriously. I could be dragged off to prison or worse for helping you. That's the last thing Cole needs."

Roan nodded. "I swear."

"Ok." Lottie had finished dressing, and was now wearing a prim but fairly stylish suit. She headed over to the bed and kissed him. "I should be back in a couple of hours. Then we can figure out what our next move is."

"Alright. See you later."

As soon as the door shut, Roan jumped to his feet, and prepared to dress. As he was gathering his clothes, he snuck a peek out the window. Lottie was just pushing her key into the lock of the Rolls. Roan chuckled as he realized neither of them had called in with that anonymous tip. As she entered through the driver-side door, he wondered if she was going to leave the car back in London.

A moment later, there was a loud whoosh as the Rolls exploded in the middle of the street.

* * *

><p><em>February 4, 2011<em>_. __10:30 PM__, __Glendale__, __CA_

"Damn it!"

"What the hell's the matter, Bartowski?"

Chuck looked up to see Casey looking at him in the half-annoyed, half-concerned look he'd seemed to have perfected in the past year. He was seated at the other end of the van, a set of binoculars hanging around his neck.

Chuck pushed aside the notebook. He didn't particularly want to have to explain what he'd been reading, so he would need a way to quickly douse Casey's curiosity.

"Oh, I've been starting to work on my vows for the wedding," he quickly said. "But I got stuck. Do you want me to run what I have so far by you?"

"That's ok," Casey replied quickly. He looked longingly at the front of the van, where Sarah was currently immersed in audio surveillance.

For the next few minutes, Chuck tried to pay attention to the van's monitor, keeping an eye on the vantage points the hidden cameras offered them. But nothing happened, and his mind kept straying to what he'd read. Despite their obvious rivalry, Chuck had always liked Cole Barker, and he'd been surprised when his name appeared in the story. He'd never imagined he'd had such a tough childhood, or how it would have affected him. But he guessed that having two spies as parents would be difficult.

"Casey, can I ask you something?"

"What?" the older man growled.

"Have you ever wondered…what it would have been like if you had returned? Been a husband and father to Alex?"

Casey looked at the younger man warily, before finally relenting. "Sometimes."

"Do you think you could have managed it? Being both a spy and a father to her?"

Casey shook his head immediately. "No." As Chuck cast his head downward, the older man said, "Look, shouldn't you be having this conversation with the spy who supposedly loves you?"

"The spy who _does_ love me," Chuck retorted. "And we will. The whole kids thing kind of scares her a bit, though." After a moment, he admitted, "It scares me too."

Casey turned his attention back to his binoculars, but eventually he relented. "It's more about who I am, than anything. I can do the whole father to an adult daughter thing. That's basically giving advice, and intimidating whoever she's dating."

Chuck had to admit he'd been fairly successful with Morgan, though he hadn't completely scared him off.

"But beyond that, I wouldn't have the patience. I'd have been terrible with a newborn. But what does that matter? You and Walker, you're two different people. You'd probably be pretty good parents, spies or no. You actually listen to people, and you care about _everybody_. And besides," he pointed to Chuck's head, "that gizmo stuck in your head probably has an instruction manual on how to change diapers."

Any further questions that Chuck wanted to ask would have to wait, as Sarah crawled into the back of the van. "I think we've finally got some action going." They all turned their attention to the monitor.

"So General Beckman was right about there being an arms deal here?"

"Intel seemed sound," Casey replied. "There are still some ex-KGB types hanging around, and every time they seem to run low on cash, they seem to want to sell another one of their old toys."

Chuck nodded. Beckman had told them the buyer was an ex-Lieutenant to one of the Ring Elders, and had no apparently been looking to into business for himself. The CIA had been tracking him, and had learned about the prospective meeting. However, they'd known little about who the seller would be, other than that he had formerly worked with the Soviet secret police.

"Wait, I think somebody's coming." Sarah leaned into the monitor. Chuck felt the flash hit as the ex-Ringman appeared on screen.

"Jesus, Bartowski, did you drop the camera before you planted it?" Casey complained as they studied the grainy footage.

"Hey, it's not my fault we were given subpar technology!"

"Would you two be quiet?" Sarah whispered. "Here comes the other." A moment later another shadowy figure appeared.

"Well there's a fashion choice you don't see every day," Casey remarked. "Is our salesman wearing a fez?"

* * *

><p><em>Sorry it took a bit longer to get this chapter out. I didn't have a lot of time last weekend, and I had a bit of trouble with a few of the scenes here.<em>

_I suppose I strayed a bit from the "Bond Homage" part of this story here. But I figured I had to get Cole in here somehow, since he was kind of the show's answer to James Bond. I had originally thought about making Roan be Cole's father, but the character (or at least the actor) was too old for that to work. Still, I'm pretty sure no Bond girl in history has ever had a kid._

_Next chapter will wrap things up in London, as the story moves on to new ports of call. I hope everyone is enjoying the story so far, and has caught all of the Bond references! As always, reviews are appreciated!_


	8. Chapter 7

_I do not own 'Chuck" I just borrowed it. And I really need to return it, though. Angry librarians are scary._

**Chapter 7. On the Road Again**

_February 20, 1977__, __1 PM__, __London__._

Roan hurried out into the street and raced to the smoky remains of the Rolls Royce. One glance told him that he was too late; there was nothing he could do. But, he knew there was no reason just to sand there watching the remnants of the car. There was always the chance that the perpetrators were still in the area. After all, someone would have had to have been in the area to see them in the stolen car, and then to plant a bomb on it. A sudden squeal of tires told him that his suspicions were correct. He ran down the street past the assembling group of onlookers. At first he didn't see any cars moving, but then he saw the exhaust trail of a red sports car in the distance.

Roan glanced down the street, in search of another vehicle. There was no way he could catch up to the sports car on foot. Finally, he saw a black sedan parked on the side of the road.

As he approached the car, he heard a female voice behind him. "Agent Montgomery, you're coming with me."

"I don't think so," Roan muttered, reaching for his weapon. But before he could draw it, he felt a stinging in his neck and everything went black.

* * *

><p>The first thing Roan noticed when he woke up was that he was moving. Forcing himself upward, he could see that he was inside a car, presumably the one he'd wanted to steal. Judging by the passing farmland seen through the window, he also was no longer in London. Rubbing his neck, he looked up at the car's front seats.<p>

"Oh good, you're awake," a recognizable voice said from the passenger seat.

"Bartowski?" Roan asked in confusion.

"Nice to see you again, Agent Montgomery."

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was sent to find you," the young techie responded. "And bring you a message."

"By tranqing me?"

"Yeah, that part wasn't really necessary," the driver commented. It was the female voice he'd heard earlier.

"I thought he was going to hurt you. He looked pretty mad."

"I can take care of myself, thank you," the woman responded curtly.

Roan rubbed his neck. "What was that stuff anyway?"

Steve smiled. "Just something I found left over from my predecessor." He held up his arm, displaying a gold wrist watch. "Shoots darts right from the watch band. Works pretty well, doesn't it?"

"Then you didn't know exactly what it was before you shot me?"

"I did," Steve responded, offended.

"He tried it out on himself first," the woman remarked drily.

This did not make Roan feel better. He shook his head, trying to shake off the aftereffects of the tranquilizer. "Where are you taking me?" he asked again, this time to. "And who is she?"

"This," Steve responded in a bemused tone, "is my bodyguard."

Roan took a closer look at the young woman. At first, he hadn't realized how young she was, but examining her face in the rearview mirror, he could see that she was younger than he was. Which was saying something, since he himself was one of the younger active spies in the CIA right now. "You're a spy?"

"Yes. And I'm not his bodyguard," he commented, removing a hand from the steering wheel to point at Bartowski. "I'm Agent Gunter. Mary Gunter. I was sent here to make sure you cooperate. He's here to provide technical support."

Roan chuckled to himself. The Director must have decided each one was too green to go alone, and combined them instead. His amusement wore off quickly, though, as he was still a bit frustrated about what had happened. "You impeded an investigation. I was about to go after the bombers."

"You wouldn't have caught them," the woman replied. "And you're safer in our hands than on the street. The Brits are just going to assume you did it anyway."

"Not if I catch the people that actually did it."

The driver shook her head. "It wouldn't have mattered. You still look like the chief suspect, and that's what Hamilton and his people would see. And there's no use arguing. We're under orders."

"And what if I refuse to go with you?" Roan reached into his pocket to find his firearm. It wasn't there.

"I thought you might not listen to reason," the woman commented. "I relieved you of your gun."

Clearly, Agent Gunter was a company loyalist, through and through. The CIA had done a number on her quickly. He didn't seem to have much of a choice, but to cooperate.

* * *

><p>"I am sorry about Agent Banginton," Bartowski said, in a kinder tone of voice than his partner. "I guess you were friends?" The woman snorted as he said this.<p>

Roan didn't reply, but instead watched the British farmland pass by through the car window. He'd only known Lottie for a couple of days, but he had liked her. And as far as he was concerned, she had died on his watch. Plus, her death would affect other people as well. "What about the boy?" he asked, finally. "What will happen to him?"

The woman shrugged. "He'll probably become a ward of the state. In the end, it's probably the best thing for him. Having spies as parents never works out. I hope you weren't considering adopting him," she added.

"Of course not." Roan was hardly the parental type.

"Bartowksi, we need to get him on board," Agent Gunter said to the young techie. Give him the message."

"Oh right," he reached down into the seat, and pulled out a briefcase. Handing it back to Roan, he instructed, "Open it." There was a metal box inside, with a small screen on the upper side of the case. "Now put this in the opening in the player." Steve handed Roan a rectangular plastic case, approximately the size of a paperback book.

After Roan did as instructed, the face of the Director appeared on screen, and moved in a slightly animated fashion when the sound began. From both his expression and his tone, Roan could see that he wasn't happy. "When I sent you to London, Agent Montgomery, I meant for you to prevent international incidents, not cause them. Thanks to you, the meetings have come to an end. The Soviet delegation is out for your head, and I'm halfway tempted to give it to them."

"I hope he realizes that I didn't kill Amasova," Roan commented.

"And yes, I do know that you didn't actually kill Amasova," the recording continued. "But it doesn't matter. The Soviets are rattling their sabers, and Senator Felix has picked this moment to grow a pair and stand up to them. It's nothing but a big mess. Fortunately," the Director seemed to calm down, "I have some agents I can rely on, so I happen to know that Alexis Romanova has already left England. Which, fortunately for you, is the exact best place for you to be as well. Agent Gunter and Bartowski here have been fully briefed on our latest intel, and you are to listen to them and cooperate fully. Or maybe I will hand your head over to the Soviets. Or possibly another part of you that you value more." With that, the recording ended.

"How do we know that Romanova has left the country?" Roan asked. He wasn't thrilled about being out of the loop, but at least he wasn't being sent home. Though having two babysitters didn't exactly appeal to him.

Agent Gunter shrugged. "I wasn't filled in on the details of that. I just know that they have reliable information on where he's going, and we're to help you get there as well."

"And where exactly is that?" Roan asked.

"Vienna."

* * *

><p><em>February 20, 1977<em>_, 4__ PM__, __Flying over Germany__._

The airstrip Roan was taken to wasn't the same as the one he'd arrived at less than two days earlier. It was next to what appeared to be an abandoned storage depot. Clearly, they weren't going through any official channels. Apparently, the Director felt that getting official British cooperation was out of the question now, especially with the suspicious death of an MI-5 agent muddying the water.

The airplane Roan and his two companions found waiting for them had all the comforts of home. If one happened to live inside a can of tinned sardines. The tiny seats and the incessant rattling of the engine would have been bearable had there been any refreshments. But the plane consisted of a single pilot, and no stewardess ready to offer a Tom Collins. Or anything else, for that matter.

Roan took the time to study his fellow Agent. Mary Gunter was fairly short, but clearly in good shape. Her curly, light-brown hair was tied back, and the dark clothing she wore was for efficiency only. Despite that, she was clearly attractive.

Despite her young age, Agent Gunter had seemed quite sure of herself back in London. Now, though, as she slept in her seat, her youth was much more obvious. She appeared much more vulnerable. Despite her confidence, Roan guess that she hadn't had much, if any, actual field experience.

"Don't worry. She really knows what she's doing."

Roan looked over to see that Steve had sat down beside him. He wanted to object to the intrusion, but there wasn't much else to do on this plane. "You've seen her in action?" he asked.

"Not really, but she has a very commanding presence. She's not fazed by any of this stuff." Roan could tell from the expression on the techie's face that he was slightly overwhelmed himself. "She doesn't think much of me, I'm afraid."

"Maybe you should give her one of your recordings," Roan commented drily.

Steve brightened slightly. "Maybe. Did you make good use of yours?"

"Oh, absolutely. I'd say your musical taste is on the cutting edge." Roan glanced out the dirty window, and studied the clouds for a minute. "I hardly think that I needed the extra company, though."

Steve shrugged. "I think the Director wanted me to experience fieldwork. He said 'it will help inform how I can better aid our agents.' Frankly, I think he wants to get rid of me. He's not a big fan of the whole civilian contracting approach."

That would explain why Bartowski's 'bodyguard' was so inexperienced. He didn't mention this to the young techie, though. He could tell by the way he was looking at the girl that he had a bit of a crush on her.

Apparently sensing the attention, Agent Gunter stirred in her seat. She was fully alert in only a second, warily looking around the cabin. Finally, she stood up and glanced at her watch. "We should be there shortly."

"So how do we know where in Vienna to look for Romanova? Did your intel help us out on that?"

"Actually," the young woman responded, "he's not _in_ Vienna. He's supposed to be staying at a villa twenty miles south."

* * *

><p>"Who is he?" Roan asked, after studying the photograph that Agent Gunter had handed him. Unlike the photos of Romanova and other KGB agents, this one was of much higher quality. It was a posed portrait, showing a man dressed in a black tuxedo, with a slightly imperious expression underneath carefully-sculpted black hair.<p>

"Gert Masterson," Gunter replied. "Wealthy industrialist, born from an American father and Austrian mother."

"And friend to the Soviets?"

"That's not quite clear yet. We do know that Romanova is supposed to be attending a party at the Masterson villa tomorrow. Whether he's actually working for Masterson, or if Masterson is a Soviet spy, is what we're supposed to find out."

"A party, you say?" Roan asked, brightening. This sounded like his ideal mission.

"That's right. Masterson is a bit of a playboy, and throws himself a lot of these kinds of bashes."

"Well," Roan commented as he sat up in his seat, "I guess we'll be attending a party, then."

* * *

><p><em>February 5, 2011<em>_. __1:30 AM__, __Echo Park__, __CA_

All Chuck could think about as he walked through the courtyard with Sarah was sleep. Normally the prospect of sharing a bed with his fiancée would put other things in his mind, but it had been a long day. Sure, much of it had been spent reading, but any day with a late night surveillance mission was a long one in his book. Luckily, Casey had agreed to stay behind to brief the General, and he could leave early.

So, as Chuck reached for the door, he figured his day was coming to a close. But the sounds coming from the house as he slowly opened the door put an end to that.

"I swear, I don't know anything!" The sound of fear was clear from Morgan's voice.

"Do you really expect me to believe that?" The voice answering Morgan was female and cold, with a Russian accent. To Chuck, the woman sounded vaguely familiar, and he wondered if he had run across her in a past mission.

Chuck looked to Sarah who nodded, her blue eyes alert.

"Fortunately," Chuck heard the female say, "I have ways to make you talk, Agent Grimes."

Chuck wasn't sure if it was the mere hint of a threat, or his own knowledge of his friend's low pain threshold, that set the Intersect off. A moment later he felt the whirring of the Intersect, and he felt the faint twinge of the electrical impulses hit his muscles.

As he ran into the house, he heard Morgan say, "Do you expect me to talk?"

"No Mr. Grimes. I expect you to strip!"

The woman's words weren't enough to shut off the Intersect, but the sight of what was going on in the living room was. Unfortunately, it was a moment too late, and Chuck only regained control as he was flying through midair. He managed to push Morgan away from the woman, and landed right on top of him.

"Uh Chuck, what are you doing?"

Chuck looked down at his friend. Apparently Morgan did as he was told, as he had already removed his shirt, and was now bare-chested, wearing only a pair of black tuxedo pants. A clip-on bow tie lay on the floor next to the two of them.

"Then, you're not in danger?"

"Well, I'm a little bit…uncomfortable, if you know what I mean."

"Oh God, oh God!"

Chuck finally got to his feet, and now looked at the woman, who'd abandoned her Russian accent. Alex was wearing a black wig, and was dressed only in some very revealing red negligee.

Once he'd managed to return to his feet, Morgan motioned to Chuck to follow him to the kitchen. Chuck did so, exchanging a look with Sarah as he did. The female spy's expression was a mixture of weariness, shock, and amusement, though the amused part seemed to be growing by the second.

"Um, I guess you guys are in for the night then?" Morgan asked once they'd reached the kitchen.

Chuck nodded. "I'm wiped, buddy. All I can do is sleep now." Though there were a few mental images he'd need to erase before he'd be able to fall asleep. Unfortunately, image deletion was one function the Intersect wasn't particularly good at.

"I wish you'd told me when you were coming home," Morgan sighed.

"I wish you'd warned me you'd be doing… what the hell were you doing?"

"Well, here's the thing," Morgan said quietly. "This whole 'me being a spy' situation. She's kind of…into it. I mean, I know she gets scared when I go out on a mission, but it also kind of…turns her on. So occasionally we, um, play-act?"

Chuck looked around desperately for a way to get away from the conversation. Morgan was undaunted, however, and continued on. "I wasn't sure about it at first, but it's kind of hot. I mean, other than the one time, I pretended to be Timothy Dalton. I should have known that wouldn't work. That guy cannot play a convincing spy. But other than that…wow. There was this one time she tied me up…"

"Morgan! If there's any possible way for you to stop sharing," Chuck begged, "please do it."

"Ok, ok," Morgan relented. "But you have to know what I'm talking about. You and Sarah, all those exciting and dangerous spy missions, the glamour and the danger, come on!"

"Morgan, you've been on enough missions to know it's not always glamorous and exciting. I just spent four hours crouched in a van doing surveillance. Hardly like the movies." Or like the exploits of Roan Montgomery, Chuck thought to himself.

Still, Chuck did know what Morgan was talking about, but he had no intention of prolonging the conversation any further, so he just shrugged.

"So," Morgan said, "since things were left a bit…unfinished, and you guys are in for the night, I think Alex and I will go to her place." They returned to the living room, to see Sarah and Alex carefully avoiding looking at each other. Alex had thrown a coat around herself, but her face was still slightly red.

"Do you want to…"

"Go? Absolutely." Alex sprung to her feet, and helped find the rest of Morgan's tux. A moment later, they were out the door.

Even though he really didn't want to, Chuck heard their voices coming from the courtyard.

"So," Alex said, once again in her Russian accent, "I am now at your mercy. What will you do to me?"

"Well, Agent McHugh, perhaps we should play a little game. I like to call it…Thunderball."

"Ooh."

"Eww," Sarah said, and Chuck shuddered in agreement.

"I don't know if I'm going to be able to look either of them in the eye again," Sarah commented.

"I don't know if I'm going to be able to look _Casey_ in the eye again."

"Oh God." Sarah moved over to Chuck, and put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm exhausted. I'm going to head off to bed. You coming?"

"Uh, in a little bit. There are a few mental pictures I'd like to get rid of before I can go to sleep. I think I'll do a little more reading first."

"Ok, just don't stay up too late." Sarah kissed goodnight and then headed off to the bedroom.

Chuck removed the notebook from his bag, and sat back down on the couch. As he was about to read, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. He retrieved the clip-on bowtie from the floor and tossed it to the other end of the room. He shivered again, then returned to his attention to his father's notes.

_I can't remember when Mary Bartowski's maiden name was revealed, but apparently it's Gunter. I'm not sure I like it, but I figured I'd have to stick with it. Not that I was going to give her a 'Bond girl' name or anything. _

_Of course, the end scene was a bit reminiscent of – ok, very similar to – the opening scene in the Valentine's day episode of the show. In my defense, I thought that scene was one of the funniest the show has done. It also was the one time they seemed to give Alex a personality. And I kind of liked the idea of her being into some weird stuff. It should make the whole Casey/Alex/Morgan relationship even more complicated._


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8. A Frosty Reception**

_February 21, 1977, 3 PM, 20 miles outside Vienna._

Roan nodded in appreciation as he studied himself in the mirror. Every mission should involve at least one night in a tuxedo, he thought. Every man looked good in one. Though few looked as good as he did.

He took a moment to check his profile to search for a bad side, before finally deciding he didn't have one. Roan then moved back to the hotel room bed, and studied the mission briefing again. The information on Gert Masterson was a bit flimsy, despite his notoriety. Everybody knew who he was, but few people seemed to know why he was as important as he was. Or, for that matter, how he had accumulated his wealth.

Nothing in the notes seemed to suggest any connection to the Soviets. For the most part, he was the stereotypical importer/exporter. That, of course, was suspicious in and of itself, but Roan wasn't looking for smugglers.

One thing he did notice was that Masterson had a partnership in a small pharmaceutical company. That could mean illegal drugs, which would certainly explain his wealth. It could also mean a connection to the development of the Klebichok agent.

A knock on the door interrupted Roan's thoughts. Before the CIA agent could respond, the door opened and Steve Bartowski walked in. Though Roan would never have imagined that anything could rival his prior leisure suit disguise for pure ugliness, Steve's suit certainly gave it a run for the money. It wasn't bad in and of itself, though it was a size or so too large, it had clearly been shoved carelessly into a suitcase before Bartowski had left. It would take several hours with an iron, or possibly a herd of stampeding elephants, to get the wrinkles out.

"So, an undercover mission," Steve said, both looking and sounding eager. "And at a party, too. Can't say I haven't been looking forward to this. Teddy will be so jealous."

"You can't tell him," Roan reminded him. "It's a secret mission, which means no talking to your friends." He studied the young man briefly. "The key is to fit in. Look like you belong at this party," Roan commented, while seriously doubting that Bartowski would be able to do that.

"Hey, give me some credit. I'm not that easily phased. It's not like I'm just going to freeze uh…"

Roan turned to where Bartowski had been looking, and immediately understood the young techie's reaction. Even though she'd entered the room unannounced, Agent Gunter had clearly made an entrance. The black dress she was wearing was tight enough in the right places, and obvious care had been taken with her hair and makeup. It was all an effect to turn all of the necessary heads, and loosen the necessary tongues, but it was clearly effective. It certainly was on Bartowski.

Agent Gunter gave Roan only the briefest of glances, then looked over at Steve. After a moment, she gave him a small smile before turning serious. "I guess we're ready to go," she announced.

* * *

><p>A Volkswagen van wasn't the best way to show up to a party, but it was the best the CIA could get its hands on at the moment. Bartowski drove them down the slightly road leading to Masterson's villa, while the other two remained momentarily quiet.<p>

"So how are we going to get in?" Bartowski finally asked.

After a while, Gunter replied. "_We're_ not. This is a job for trained agents," Gunter added. "Undercover jobs like this are tricky."

"I wouldn't have to be a guest," Steve protested. "I could be a waiter or something."

"Waiters at these parties go through a bigger screening process than the guests do," Roan explained. "It's actually easier to show up as a guest."

"Then you just want me to…"

"Stay in the car!" both Roan and Mary said at the same time.

"It will be safer," Mary added, a little more kindly. "And we might need you out here, you never now. If things go badly."

Steve didn't answer, but he did seem somewhat mollified.

Before they reached the villa, Steve parked the car in a wooded area out of sight of the road. Turning to the others he said, "Even if I can't go in, I can at least keep track of you." He handed a bracelet to Agent Gunter, and a watch to Roan. "Put those on. They'll monitor your heart rate. At least then I'll know if you're in danger. It's the best I can do for now. There's also a small transmitter in each. Tap on it in morse code if you want to send me a message."

"Thank you," Agent Gunter said sincerely.

"Well, I guess it's my job. Now, be careful."

* * *

><p>It wouldn't have been too much of an exaggeration to describe Masterson's party as a circus. This was partly due to the festive atmosphere, but also because the party was divided into three separate parts.<p>

The first section was held in a large ballroom, and it appeared to be mainly attended by old money. Roan wasn't the only man wearing a tuxedo in this room, though most of the attendees were quite a bit older. It was all quite classy, exceedingly exclusive, and to Roan's eyes extremely dull.

The second section catered to a much younger group of people. It was held in yet another ballroom, this one decorated as a facsimile of Studio 54 in New York. Roan examined the attendees via the uneven light of an overhead disco ball. He didn't see Masterson or Romanova anywhere, though many of the outfits were outrageous enough to qualify as disguises. There were even a few females covered in gold paint. Roan didn't see much in the way of clothing underneath the paint, and made a mental note to revisit this room later on.

The third part of the party was in a separate wing of the villa. Several gaming tables surrounded the room, with various games of chance being played throughout. Roan walked past the various poker and baccarat tables, fighting off the temptation to join in. He'd always liked gambling, and this appeared to be the exact high-stakes setting he preferred. Of course he had a job to do, and he guessed he did not have a high bankroll to work with. Still, this seemed to be a good a place to investigate as any.

He turned to Agent Gunter, who'd been surveying the place beside him. "I suggest you check the other rooms," he suggested. She was a bit young for the first room, and a bit conservatively dressed for the second, but she should be fine if she didn't stay in one place for too long.

"You know, we're supposed to be working together," Mary commented. "Like a team."

"I didn't ask to be on a team," Roan replied. "And I think I have a bit more experience in these things than you do. Still," he added, looking her up and down, "perhaps when we're finished we can team up for something tonight in my room."

The look of disgust on Mary's face said more than her words needed to. "I'd rather sleep with a diseased warthog."

"You might get your chance, then. I believe there was a guy dressed up like one in the other room. Look, just mingle and see if you can find out anything. Use your womanly charms." Roan added the last part doubtfully. Despite her outfit, he hadn't really seen any evidence that she had any.

Mary appeared to want to refuse, but eventually nodded and left the room. Roan smiled. Despite the young Agent's bravado, it was clear that she had been instructed that he was the leader of this mission.

Roan slowly walked through the room, studying the various attendees. As he surveyed his surroundings, he noticed that someone had left several chips in an abandoned jacket pocket. He carefully turned his back to the jacket, and reached back to grab the chips. Satisfied with his newfound plunder, he moved on.

After a couple of trips around the room, he still hadn't managed to find anything suspicious. Deciding to take a break, he paused by one of the tables. After all, what better way to further examine the room than by appearing to be one of the many gamblers?

Roan watched the table's current competitor roll the two dice onto the green felt, then slumped down when the double sixes were revealed. Bad luck, indeed.

Roan had never been a big fan of craps, but the table gave him a good vantage point. He certainly knew enough about the game to know that rolling double sixes was a bad move. The man was undaunted, though and rolled again, this time getting a six and a three. The roll after landed on a total of seven, sending the man to yet another loss. He finally stumbled off to another part of the room, probably to lose yet more money.

"Roll, sir?"

Roan looked up to see the croupier holding the dice up to him. With no hesitation, he grabbed them, and dropped a pile of chips he'd managed to procure from the entryway. He gave the dice an artful shake and rolled them across the table.

"Eleven, a winner. Care to roll again?"

In the interest of appearances, Roan continued on. After a few more successful rounds, Roan decided to cash in. "I'll take my winnings. I think."

"Ok. Just bring them over to the back of the room, Mr….?"

Roan had prepared an alias before entering the party, but he now decided that "Hilary Gray" would have to wait. He was in a gambling mood now, so another roll of the dice was in order.

"Mr. Warner. Simon Warner."

* * *

><p>Roan headed over to the other end of the room, and waited patiently to cash in his chips. As he stood there, he scanned the room once again, but saw little of interest. The sadsack man from the craps table was now watching the roulette wheel spin, his eyes following it hopefully. When it stopped, he shook his head, and immediately dropped another chip on the table.<p>

"Some people are just born losers."

Roan turned around to see who had spoken. Clearly, Roan's luck was continuing, as he recognized his newfound companion. Gert Masterson looked remarkably like his photograph. His bronze tan belied the current wintry surroundings, and his hair was blacker than his picture, presumably thanks to some liberally applied dye. He also wore a tuxedo like he had been born in it, enough to make even Roan jealous.

It was time to see if his ruse had worked. "Yes, his luck seems to be off tonight."

"Not just tonight," Masterson explained. "His family made its fortune in broccoli, of all things. But now the father's died, and the whole estate is being fought over in courts. Quite the mess. I'm afraid he won't do much better there than he is here." He looked over as one of the croupiers approached Roan with his winnings. "I see not everyone has been so unsuccessful tonight."

Roan shrugged as he accepted the money. "The craps table was good to me."

"Then I take it you're a man who appreciates his games of chance, Mr…?"

"Simon Warner."

If Masterson recognized the name, he didn't show it. "Gert Masterson." He held out his hand, and Roan shook it.

"Our gracious host," Roan said after he'd released the Austrian's hand.

"The one and only." He took a gulp of his drink, and glanced around at his party. "I myself appreciate the draw of the random as well, Mr. Warner. But cards and dice don't interest me as much as used to, even though they paid for most of this."

"Than what does interest you?" Roan kept the question light, despite his interest in the answer.

"People do," came the prompt response. Roan would have like to have known whether those people that interested him happened to be communists, but Masterson didn't say anything further.

"Is that why you throw these lavish parties, then?" Roan asked. "Because you like people?"

Masterson smiled. "I said people interest me, not that I like them. But yes." He leaned over and watched the assembled crowd move around the room. "Every one of these people. Every action, every decision, every interaction occurring between them, an unknown. There are literally millions of possibilities."

"Then you don't know your own guests?"

"Barely a one. But you should know that, since I don't know you." Masterson's eyes sparkled. "This is what I like to bet on. The infinite randomness of people."

Roan couldn't decide whether Masterson was fascinating or just a nutjob. But he wasn't there to figure out that riddle. He just needed to know if he was involved with the Soviets. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Master motioned for Roan to follow. They walked around the room, surveying the various party-goers milling about the place. "Well, look over here, for example." Roan looked over to where Masterson was pointing. A waiter was carrying a tray with two sets of glasses. One set contained red wine, while the other carried white. The waiter was approaching a distinguished-looking gentleman. "Will he take a glass of the red, or a glass of the white."

"Red." Roan guessed.

"Care to wager one of your chips?"

Roan shrugged. "Sure." A moment later, the spy found himself handing over the chip, when their quarry took a glass of the white. From the man's reaction, Roan guess he had made the wrong choice. Roan decided he'd stick to the red.

"See, infinite possibilities. But perhaps sex is more to your liking?"

Roan couldn't disagree with that, though he hoped Masterson wasn't offering.

He wasn't. Instead, he pointed over at another corner of the room. Two men were busy talking to a young blonde woman. The girl looked like she was barely 20, but was quite beautiful, and had the undivided attention of the two men. "Which one will she leave with?"

Roan studied the two men. Both were young, handsome, and probably rich. The only difference between the two was that one man had blonde hair, while the second had darker hair. On the surface, there didn't seem to be a clear favorite. But as a spy, Roan was trained in reading body language. The second man seemed to exude a confidence that the first man didn't. It was clear that he would emerge victorious. Still, Roan figured he needed to humor Masterson if he was going to learn anything. "The blonde."

Masterson grinned. "We'll see. How about we wager half of those chips of yours on it?"

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the young woman took the hand of the blonde man, and walked away. Feigning disappointment, Roan handed half of his chips to Masterson. "See, it's all about people. Alright, how about we go double-or-nothing on whether our loser's next conquest is successful."

Roan watched the blonde man mill through the crowd, and had to fight off the laugh that almost came when the man found his new mark. He was a bit disappointed that Agent Gunter had come back to this room, but at least she might help him finally beat Masterson. "Ok. I say he fails again."

"We'll see." They watched as Agent Gunter engaged the man for a moment, probably trying to extract information from him. Roan could see that he would have to talk to the young Agent about her flirting skills at some point, but it didn't really matter. One way or another, it looked like she'd gotten what she wanted, and walked away.

"It looks like you've won one," Masterson said ruefully.

While Roan was good at reading people himself, he wasn't sure exactly what to make of the playboy. Fortunately, he figured that Masterson was struggling with trying to do the same thing. He'd need to keep him occupied a little longer. "How about one more?"

"Sure." Masterson looked around. "How about that guy. Will he end this night alone?"

Roan had been getting concerned that Alexis Romanova wouldn't make an appearance at the party, leaving the mission a failure – chips or no. But he had now entered the room, and was looking over at the high-stakes poker table with mild interest. Though dressed in a tuxedo, he certainly didn't look refined. Roan could make out a scar jutting out from near one of his narrow-set eyes, and his expression was mildly cruel. If anybody left with him, it was clear they would be taking their safety, and potentially their life, in their hands.

"He looks rather ugly," Roan responded, studying Masterson closely to see whether the host seemed to recognize the Soviet. "I'd imagine that would lower his chances."

Indeed, as they watched him, most everyone seemed to steer clear of Romanova. "I'll take that bet," Masterson said after a minute or so.

Roan accepted a glass of red wine from a passing waiter, and stood there with Masterson. He saw Agent Gunter disappear and reappear a couple of times. At one point, she seemed to recognize Romanova, and it took several frantic, but subtle, gestures to convince her to stay away. A trained killer like the Russian would be too much for her.

Finally, Romanova seemed to lose interest in the game and walked across the room. At first, Roan didn't see what had caught the KGB Agent's interest, until he saw the woman he was approaching. She was another young blonde, dressed in a dark blue, and rather revealing, dress. Roan had to admit that Romanova, evil bastard that he was, had great taste in women.

Not that it would matter, he thought to himself. But the woman smiled as he approached, and after a minute of conversation, took his arm. Masterson barked a laugh as the two departed from the room.

"I guess I owe you the rest of my chips," Roan admitted.

"You should, but I won't take them from you. I must admit, I saw the two of them come to the party together. Hardly fair, so enjoy your winnings."

As Roan pocketed the remainder of his chips, Masterson added, "Still, perhaps I will get another chance. You intrigue me, Mr. Warner. If you are interested, a have a proposal for you."

* * *

><p><em>February 5, 2011. 3:00 AM, Echo Park, CA<em>

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end of the line sounded wary and uncertain.

Chuck sat down on the ledge by the courtyard fountain. Other than the sound of the splashing water, everything was quiet, and he spoke in a hushed tone.

"Cole? Cole Barker?"

"Who is this?" the response was harsher than the refined tone Chuck remembered.

"It's Chuck Bartowski."

After a pause, "Chuck? Is everything ok?"

"Yeah. Everything's fine. Uh, how are you?"

"How did you get this…oh, of course. The Intersect."

"It's like the Yellow pages for international men of mystery," Chuck responded. "I'm sorry to bother you."

"It's fine. What is it, Chuck?"

"Uh, I have a question." Chuck stuck splashed the fountain water slightly with his hand, trying figure how best to proceed. Finally, he decided to be direct. "Your parents, were they spies?"

Another pause. "That was in the Intersect too?"

"Actually, no. I found some…records recently. They seemed to have some information about you."

"Damn. Records? Then somebody has burned me."

"No, it's ok. The documents are safe, and they're…encrypted. But I just wanted to confirm their…accuracy."

"I see." The line was quiet for about fifteen seconds. "Yes, my parents were spies."

"And they were both killed in the line of duty?"

"When I was very young. This was in these documents of yours?"

"They touch on it. Did you ever find out what happened to them? And, um, avenge them?"

"I did find out. But somebody got to them before I could. Why are you asking this?"

"I lost my father recently. And I had a chance to…avenge him."

"But you didn't." Cole didn't phrase this as a question.

"No."

"That's because you're a good man. You made the right decision. Vengeance can be like a cancer, eating away at you."

"I know, but it's difficult. It makes me wonder what it would be like for my kids if something like that happens."

"I see what you're worried about. My mother told me who she was after my father died, and I didn't really take it well. But I learned to understand as I got older. She was a hero. So was my dad."

"Then you followed in their footsteps?"

"I didn't want to at first. But when I got older, I realized that it was in my blood. I went to Oxford, then the Academy, and a couple of years later got my license to kill. And that was that."

Chuck considered the MI-6 agents words for a while. Finally, he decided to ask another question. "Do you know Roan Montgomery?"

A dry chuckle came through the phone. "Roan Montgomery. There's a name I haven't heard in a while. Yes, we've crossed paths."

"Then you met him when you were a boy?"

"Oh yes, he worked with my mother back then. I'm afraid he's no longer the bright, shining example that the CIA would like him to be."

"Then you've seen him recently?"

"Well, not exactly recently. He used to show up now and again at the orphanage. Bring me gifts. He even taught me stuff. Like how to fight. Convince people you're something you're not. Seduce women."

"Huh." Chuck tried to picture Roan Montgomery, father figure but it didn't quite compute.

"So that's what you wanted to ask me?"

"Pretty much."

"Ok, then. So, how's Sarah?"

"Oh, she's good. We're engaged now."

After yet another pause, "Well, that's wonderful to hear. I'd hate to think I lost out for no good reason. And she's happy?"

"Yeah. Yeah, she is."

"Well, good. Listen, Chuck, I've got to get going. I have a reclusive assassin I need to find and take out, and well, I'm on a tight schedule."

"Then you're not in England?"

"Hong Kong, actually."

"Wow. Sounds exotic."

"Chuck, don't be jealous. You got the girl, remember? Good night, Chuck, and it was good hearing from you."

"Bye."

* * *

><p><em>So I'm considering, in yet another bit of hubris, to do a list of all of the James Bond references throughout this story. I've been tracking all of it in a spreadsheet, sadly enough.<em>

_I hope everyone is sticking by this story. More derring-do is up ahead!_


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9. An Even Frostier Reception  
><strong>

_February 21, 1977, 6 PM, 20 miles outside Vienna._

"If you touch me one more time you'll be breathing through your ear."

Roan winced as he stepped outside on the veranda. The voice was definitely Agent Gunter's, and its tone was not a happy one. The area was filled with enough partygoers to make it hard to see where she was, but she'd been loud enough that she'd eventually make a scene, and get noticed. He'd hoped to get away now that he'd successfully made contact with Masterson, and it would be a lot easier to do that if he didn't need to explain himself to a half-dozen burly bouncers.

After a moment of looking around, Roan found Agent Gunter. Her new friend didn't appear to be particularly dissuaded by her attitude. He wasn't exactly a body builder, but it clear that there wasn't a 120-pound weakling hidden under the suit. The ruddy complexion and beads of sweat under the red hair at least seemed to suggest he'd had a few too many. Roan still wasn't sure how well Gunter could handle herself against him, drunk or no.

As he was watching the scene, Roan saw some movement down in the bushes below. Eventually, he recognized Steve Bartowski's rumpled suit. From the expression on his face, it was clear that the young techie had also seen what was going on, and was about the rush into the party like a raging bull. Or at least try to, which would be just as bad.

Roan looked back to see whether the situation had managed to resolve itself quietly. The drunk wasn't angry, at least, in fact he didn't seem to be phased at all. Instead, he merely leered and said in a slight German accent. "Ah, an American. One of my favorites!" He reached a hand towards the bodice of Mary's dress.

And in barely a second, his hand had been pulled behind him, and his groin had met the business end of her knee. So much for her not being able to handle herself.

"I warned you," Roan heard her growl. He knew he'd better step in, as people were beginning to take notice. As he approached her, she gave him a dirty look but didn't speak. He leaned over, and whispered, "You're making a scene. We don't need that."

Gunter looked down, examined the now wincing German, and nodded.

"Giggle," Roan suggested.

"Excuse me?"

"Giggle at what I say. Pretend it's the wittiest thing in the world."

Gunter rolled her eyes. "Seriously?"

"Just do it. You're drawing too much attention to us."

"And your solution is for me to act like a drunken floozy?"

"At this party? Yes. You'll fit right in."

Mary relented and let out a somewhat harsh-sounding giggle. Roan lifted her to her feet, and she made a slightly off-balanced lurch into him.

"I think she's had too many," Roan announced to the crowd, who seemed to lose interest.

He pulled Agent Gunter alongside him. She stumbled slightly, making sure to give the drunk German a swift kick in the process. "Perhaps we should go," he said to her.

"Oookay," Agent Gunter responded in an unnaturally high-pitched voice.

"Don't overdo it," Roan admonished her.

"Yeah well, I won't overdo it if you take your hand off of there," Mary responded through clenched teeth, moving Roan's hand upward.

* * *

><p>As soon as Roan and Mary were free from the party, they found Steve standing for them, arms enfolded across his chest. "You were supposed to be in the car," Agent Gunter said as she quickly released Roan.<p>

Steve pointed to her bracelet. "Your heart rate was increasing. I thought you were in trouble. I guess not," he added pointedly.

"I told you I can handle myself. Told _both_ of you," Mary added the last part as she turned to Roan.

"Maybe we should just move past the whole who can take care of who debate, and get back to the hotel. We need to discuss our next move." When the others looked at him blankly, Roan added, "I made contact with Masterson. Gained his trust, apparently. He's invited me to his chalet outside Innsbruck. It seems there's a poker tournament, and he wants to bankroll me."

"What would he do that?" Steve asked.

Roan shrugged. "I guess he's decided that I have some promise as a gambler, and he thinks he can make some money by wagering on my winning."

Mary shook her head. "Sounds like a trap to me."

"It could very well be," Roan admitted. "But he does seem to know Romanova. He didn't admit to it, but I think he was lying."

"So then it's definitely a trap. You'll need us to watch your back."

"Maybe so," Roan replied, "but watch it from a distance. I was invited to this tournament, you weren't. I don't even know exactly where this chalet is. You can monitor me from Innsbruck. That way you can help."

For once, Roan added, but only to himself.

* * *

><p>Gunter and Bartowski hadn't been too thrilled by the suggestion that they would be better off on the sidelines, but they didn't put up too much of a fight about it. Each had gone off quietly to their respective hotel room.<p>

As Roan removed his tuxedo, he considered the situation. Agent Gunter was quite correct that it likely was a trap. Masterson's connection to the Soviets had been proven by Romanova's presence at his house. The KGB agent clearly wasn't the party-going type. At least not that type of party, anyway. Even if he had managed to find a girl to hang onto his arm, it didn't make him seem any less out of place.

Masterson, himself, was another problem. From everything Roan had seen, the Austrian was clearly quite reckless. He had made his fortune by gambling, or at least claimed to. Roan suspected that his ruse with Warner's name had worked, and Masterson had been intrigued. Instead of immediately taking action, though, Masterson was waiting for something. If nothing else, he probably felt that he was toying with Roan.

Roan didn't like being toyed with. And he didn't get the rug pulled from under him so easily.

The sound of a knock on the door prevented Roan from considering his situation further. Once again, Steve let himself in the room before the CIA agent could respond.

"I figured I'd check your watch, make sure we can still monitor you. Don't want you to get killed without us knowing." The young techie's voice was uncharacteristically cold.

"Something bothering you, Bartowski?" Roan asked drily.

Steve looked like he was about to retort, but finally he sighed and looked at Roan plaintively. "Aw, hell, what good is it? I never would have stood a chance anyway. She's too beautiful, and now you? You're like the Burt Reynolds of spies!"

Roan didn't have to ask him about who he was talking about. And he was right. Between the two of them, Bartowski wouldn't stand a chance. He could practically be pictured in the dictionary under the word nebbish, after all.

Roan had to admit that Agent Gunter was a beautiful woman. He knew, given the time, he could seduce her. But, it would be a lot of work. The young agent had built up some walls, and breaking them down would take some painstaking effort. And he should spend at least some of his attention on bringing down Romanova and Masterson. He was a professional, after all.

Besides, there would likely be plenty of women at Masterson's poker tournament.

Roan decided that he should be the bigger man in this instance. And for that to happen, a little bit of goading was necessary. "You're going to give up so easily?" he asked. "I thought you'd at least give me a little bit of competition."

"Competition?"

"Of course. I think you're selling yourself short. There must be something that you're better than me at."

"Well, I'm probably a little better than you at not being a jackass," Bartowski retorted.

Ah, there was the fire. "Ok, there's one. But you'd better come up with more than that if you're going to have any hope."

Bartowski looked like he was going to make another retort, but finally gave up when none came. Shoulders slumped, he turned away and headed out the door.

Roan chuckled to himself. At least being the bigger man had its entertainment value.

* * *

><p><em>February 22, 1977, 8 AM, a private airstrip midway between Vienna and Innsbruck<em>

Despite the confidence he'd expressed to Agent Gunter and Bartowski, Roan approached his rendezvous with Masterson with caution. Even if he was expecting a trap, he might not see it coming in time. If anything, the gambler's recklessness made the Austrian even more dangerous than the usual cunning villain. Somebody who's hard to predict is someone who's hard to guard against.

So, Roan kept a careful eye on the surroundings once they'd reached the heliport that Masterson had told him to come to. Once they'd dropped him off, Bartowski and Gunter made themselves scarce, at least as far as he could see. He assumed they were hidden somewhere nearby, with guns and tranquilizer darts cocked and ready.

Once a half hour had passed since the planned meeting time, Roan began to doubt the likelihood of an ambush occurring. Treachery, after all, tended to follow an exact schedule. Before he could relax too much, though, the roar of a helicopter engine appeared in the distance.

Roan shielded his face as the chopper whipped the surrounding snow around. As his transportation touched down, he felt around for the knife hidden in the inside of his suit. A gun would have been nice, but guns don't mix well with airborne contraptions. Shooting the wrong piece of equipment could have disastrous results.

Finally, the engine shut off, and Roan could see Masterson wave to him. No attack appeared forthcoming, so the CIA walked around to the door, nodding briefly to his host. The only other passenger, the helicopter pilot, ignored them both.

"Glad you could make it," Masterson commented once Roan was inside.

"Well, I'm always open to a challenge."

Masterson didn't respond until they were up in the air. "I would hope so. You are a risk taker, like myself, are you not?"

Roan looked down through the helicopter window. The pilot was yet another risk taker, judging by the narrow distance between them and the mountaintops. There was little to see around, other than peak after peak of the Alps. He wouldn't know how to find his way back to civilization if he tried. So yes, he was definitely taking a chance here.

Masterson took Roan's silence for assent. "That's good. But I must warn you, I have a lot riding on you at this tournament. So I suggest that you don't take any _foolish_ risks."

"Of course not." Out of all the risks Roan had taken throughout the years, none were what he would call foolish.

A moment later, Roan noticed that the helicopter was slowing down. In the snowy distance he could see the sloping roof of Masterson's chalet. Chalet might have been an understatement. Roan would have gone with the term "mountain palace." It was impressive.

"Well, here we are," Masterson said once they'd landed. They exited the chopper, and Roan followed the Austrian into the building. The entrance way was warm, and led them to a long, ornately furnished hallway. Masterson seemed to like antiques, as various antiquities lined the hallway. Despite that, the place didn't exactly feel homey. Masterson probably spent very little time in the place.

Finally, they reached a large door at the end of the hall. Roan thought he could hear the low sound of murmuring coming from inside.

Roan followed Masterson inside, braced to face his fate.

* * *

><p><em>February 5, 2011. 9:15 AM, Burbank, CA<em>

As Chuck walked through the Buy More doors the next morning, he wished he'd had a few more cups of coffee. He'd had trouble sleeping the night before, which had led to his phone conversation with Cole Barker, not to mention reading a bit more from his father's journal. He'd been unwilling to give up on it and go to bed. The early relationship between his parents that was briefly described had been fascinating, and eerily familiar in some ways.

Once he reached the Nerd Herd station, Chuck noticed that he wasn't the only one who'd had a rough night. "What did you guys do last night?" he asked.

"Things got a little out of hand at Bennigan's," Lester replied, his hand rubbing the black patch covering one eye. "You shoulda been there – you haven't lived until you've been through at least one Benny's brawl."

"Gznxscaramangaptuv," Jeff added helpfully.

"Uh, what was that?" Chuck asked.

"Jeffrey, you forgot to take out your retainer," Lester prodded his friend.

"Oh," Jeff said, once the complicated metal contraption had been removed from his mouth. "Last night totally rocked."

Chuck heard footsteps behind him, and turned to see Morgan approaching. "Shouldn't you two be working?" he heard his friend say. Morgan, Chuck noticed, was carefully avoiding any eye contact with him.

"Oh please Morgan, all these new robotic underlings of yours can handle things just fine," Lester retorted, gesturing at a few of the industrious Gretas roaming the aisles.

Chuck looked over at his two colleagues. "They _will_ probably just scare away customers," Chuck pointed out. "Remember last week?"

"What, we find out there's an Octomom sex tape out there, and you expect us not to download it?" Lester objected.

"Yeah, I just wanted to see her octop-"

"Ok, guys!" Morgan quickly interrupted. "Family establishment here. Maybe just go and do your thing, and … avoid any customers at all costs."

After the two Nerd Herders had left, Chuck and Morgan stood there awkwardly for a few moments. Finally, Morgan decided to break the silence. "Listen, Chuck, last night…"

"I say we leave it in the past, and never bring it up again, buddy."

Morgan's face brightened. "Perfect! I wasn't really wanting a big conversation anyway. I'm mean I'm kind of tired, after what Alex and I did at her place…"

"Morgan!"

"Right. In the past. Got it. Hey, here comes Casey. Maybe he's got a big mission for us."

The big NSA agent practically ignored Morgan, and motioned for Chuck to follow. He did so, and they headed to a corner of the Buy More. "We got some information on our fez-wearing shopper from last night."

"The Russian?"

Casey's eyes narrowed. "How'd you know that? You said he wasn't in the Intersect."

Chuck recovered quickly. "Oh, I just guessed. He looked Russian."

Casey gave one of his more agreeable grunts. "Hmm. He did look shifty."

Thankful that Casey's prejudices had gotten him off the hook, Chuck pressed on. "So who is he? Ex-KGB? Probably went freelance after the Soviet Union fell."

Casey nodded. "His name is Strannaya Deloski, which apparently is loosely translated into 'he who takes on strange tasks.' And you're part right. He _was_ KGB. But he went rogue in 1975, long before we brought down the Reds."

* * *

><p><em>I'd been hoping to be a bit more timely with these updates, but things have been busier than I expected, so I apologize for the slow pace with posting new chapters.<em>

_And yes, as you can see, it's getting a bit tougher to work in the movie titles now. Especially the more recent ones._

_I hope everyone is still enjoying the story. Reviews, as always, are greatly appreciated._


	11. Chapter 10

_I don't own "Chuck." Or James Bond. But, given that there have been about 4,217 different TV shows and movies about spies and the CIA in the last couple of years, there's a pretty good chance that I own at least one of them._

**Chapter 10. When to Walk Away, and When to Run**

_February 22, 1977, 1 PM, Somewhere in the Alps._

As a trained operative, Roan was ready to handle situations that most men would shy away from. What would bring fear and anxiety to mere civilians would barely phase him. So, he stared calmly back at the five pairs of cold, dark eyes glaring back at him. This was nothing, a situation he had faced countless times.

Even if those cold eyes belonged to royalty. Or most of them, anyway.

"I'll raise," Roan announced, as he dropped a couple of chips into the center of the table. He glanced back at the cards. He had never been exactly clear what a jack was, whether they were, in fact, members of the royal family, members of the court, or just hangers-on. Still, the two he had were accompanied by those of a higher station, something he was not going to let slip.

He looked back up at the table. The next man to bid was studying him intently, so he decided to return the gaze. He had not seen Captain Rudolf Adagio at the party the day before, and he was sure he would have remembered him if he had. He was older, probably in his sixties, with a long thin face covered by a mat of grey hair. He had dressed for the occasion, wearing a white tuxedo that had likely been specially tailored given Adagio's long frame.

"I'm out," the Italian replied, dropping his cards onto the table.

"Not your night, is it Adagio?" the next man at the table asked in a deep voice. Hubert Trax was younger, with dark hair parted to the side, and a full mustache lining his upper lip. Like Adagio, though, he wore a white tuxedo. Roan had noted Trax's easy manner at the beginning of the game – he was confident, which the CIA Agent had immediately distrusted. Not too confident at the moment, though, as he merely called.

The next man over looked around at each of the other players. Carlo Hamburg was a florid, heavy-set man, with a few strands of white hair atop his head. Unlike the others, he wore a button-down shirt without a tie. His red shirt had a wide collar that appeared to be an attempt to appear fashionable. Unlike the other two, Roan did remember Hamburg from the party. So would Agent Gunter, since he was the man who had accosted her on the veranda the night before.

"As much as I'd like to keep going with you gents," Hamburg announced, "I think I'll sit this one out."

"I raise."

Everyone turned their eyes to the last man at the table as he spoke. This suited Roan just fine, since he was the reason for his presence, after all. Alexis Romanova seemed much more at home at a card table than at an exclusive party. The dim lights of the room de-emphasized his sharp features, and his current outfit, black from head to toe, seemed to fit him better, as if his dark heart had oozed out through his skin. His eyes darted across the room quickly, surveying the others as if daring them to object to his hefty wager. No one did.

Romanova could afford it, anyway, as he'd been winning all night. Roan, one of the few at the table currently holding their own, wasn't surprised. The tenets of communism never seemed to extend to the gambling arena, nor, for that matter, did they prevent its followers from cheating.

Roan wasn't about to be dissuaded, and replied equally tersely. "Call."

The last remaining player, however, showed no such bravado. "I'll you two duke this out," Trax commented dryly after dropping his cards.

Roan unveiled his hand, dropping the three kings and two jacks onto the table. "Full house," he said to Romanova, his lips curled up in a smile.

In response, the Russian merely grunted. He slowly dropped his cards on the table, before leaning back to let everyone see. Putting the ace in between the four sixes was a nice touch, Roan thought. It took some of the sting out of losing. But not much.

Romanova's cheering section rushed over and hugged him. Roan had been surprised to see that the young girl from the party was still around. She'd been by his side throughout most of the game, happily applauding his every call and raise. For his part, the KGB Agent seemed less impressed by his success. Presumably, he had bigger things on his mind.

The person the least happy about the hand's result was the host of this friendly get-together. Masterson had been pacing around the room through most of the day, and had occasionally sent an uneasy look in Roan's direction. The CIA agent could only imagine that the Austrian's decision to bankroll him was going to cost him a lot of money. Now he approached the table, giving Roan yet another annoyed glance. "Perhaps we should take a break," he said, before stomping away again.

* * *

><p>Roan figured this would be an opportunity to see if he could pick up some information about Masterson and Romanova. The Russian had disappeared somewhere with his girl, but the other players had remained in the room. The CIA Agent strolled up to them and offered to grab some drinks.<p>

There was a fully stocked bar at the end of the room. Roan had seen a bartender earlier, but he was nowhere in sigh now. This suited Roan perfectly. He still wasn't sure that no trap was forthcoming, so he'd much rather get his own drink and avoid the possibility of somebody slipping him something he didn't want. He grabbed a bottle of single-malt scotch, and poured the contents into four glasses.

The others nodded appreciatively when Roan returned with the drinks.

"Ah, Masterson always has the good stuff. Takes some of the pain out of losing," Hamburg said, saluting Roan with his glass.

"Yeah, that Russian seems to be quite lucky tonight," Roan remarked.

Trax turned to the corner of the room, where Romanova had re-emerged with the young woman. "Yup. And he's been doing very well at cards too." Everyone dutifully laughed.

"He must be a friend of Masterson's," Roan suggested.

Trax shrugged. "Everybody knows Gert. Especially if they happen to play cards."

"So there are a lot of these games?"

"Masterson always has a game going," Hamburg replied. "That and parties are pretty much all he does."

Roan pressed on. "Then the pharmaceutical business doesn't interest him that much?"

Roan noticed that Adagio had scowled slightly. He seemed a little less willing to share than the others – though he certainly hadn't turned away the scotch. However, Trax didn't seem to care. "Oh Gert has almost nothing to do with that now."

"Then he doesn't own the company?"

"Not since that private equity company came in. Good thing they did, too. Things were floundering until then. Masterson is no genius when it comes to business. But they came in, brought a pile of cash to straighten things out. They even let him stick around, as if he's still making decisions. He's supposedly got an office that he never goes to."

Roan decided he wanted to learn more about this private equity firm, but he wasn't sure how much he wanted to push things here. The other card players didn't seem like they were working with Masterson or Romanova, but he couldn't be sure. Adagio especially seemed suspicious. Perhaps he should temporarily change the subject.

"I'm in electronics myself," Roan commented, adopting the persona of a chatty businessman. "You wouldn't believe some of the things we've come up with." His mind reached back to some of the toys that Bartowski had been playing with the last few days. "We've got this machine that will play back recorded images, almost like it was live television."

"Unless those recorded images happen to include Farrah Fawcett," Hamburg stated, "I'm not sure I'm interested."

After everyone laughed again, Trax said, "Well regardless of who your thing shows on it, you'd better hope it's lucrative enough to pay back our Soviet friend. I don't think he's the kind of guy to ignore debts."

"Not the friendly sort, is he?"

"He even seems to make our host uncomfortable," Hamburg said, point at Masterson. The Austrian was pacing back and forth once again.

"I think he's anxious for the game to start up again," Adagio said. Everyone agreed and headed back to the table.

As he was finishing up his scotch, Roan considered what he'd heard. Clearly, this 'private equity firm' was important somehow. Perhaps they were the connection between Masterson and the Soviets. A convenient way for them to develop chemical weapons right in front of the West's noses. He wasn't sure why they'd killed Warner, or Amasova for that matter. Perhaps they felt that their new weapons gave them the upper hand, and peace negotiations would keep them from using it.

He turned back to look at Romanova. Whatever his plan was, it would have to be stopped. Obviously sure of himself, the Russian strode purposefully back to the table.

Or at least he should be striding. To Roan, it looked like he was actually floating.

A moment later, he blacked out.

* * *

><p>Roan awoke to a flash of bright light blaring in his face. He blinked a few times, trying to focus his eyes. Finally, a blurry form came into view. A blurry, fez-wearing form.<p>

"Oh great, you again," Roan muttered. "Where am I?"

Fez stared back at Roan, but didn't respond.

Roan struggled, slowly realizing that he couldn't move his arms. He looked down to see that they were chained to the armrests of the chair he was seated in. So were his legs.

The room he was currently in wasn't exactly as lavish as the rest of the house. As a general rule, storage rooms weren't, of course, but the turpentine smell and peeling wallpaper were quite a difference from the rest of the chalet.

Roan wasn't interested in the nature of his current hospitality. Instead, he turned his attention to a small bottle on a shelf standing next to him. His eyes narrowed, and he turned to Fez. "You poisoned me?"

"That's the antidote, actually. If I didn't give it to you, you'd be dead by now."

Fez hadn't spoken. Instead, it was Masterson, who Roan hadn't even noticed was in the room. He seemed to be trying to act tough, though wasn't entirely succeeding. Being a heavy wasn't in the Austrian's nature. Plus, it was clear that he was frightened, even more so than Roan.

Roan thought back to earlier. He didn't remember being given anything. He had carefully guarded against that. It was why he had poured his own…

"The scotch. You poisoned it?"

Masterson nodded.

"But what about everyone else? Trax? Hamburg? Adagio? You didn't expect them to drink some too?" Getting no response, he asked, "Did you give them the antidote?"

"They owed money, nothing more. They didn't need to answer any questions. You do."

Roan watched Masterson turn to look at Romanova as the Russian entered the room and spoke. The Austrian had turned even more pale. He was clearly a bit over his head.

Romanova paid Masterson no attention, but instead approached Roan. "Now. We didn't give you enough of the antidote to get the poison out of your system. Just enough to slow it down. We might give you the rest. _If_ you tell me what I want to know."

Roan knew that Romanova meant business. He had a reputation of finding creative ways of torturing people. One unfortunate attempted defector had met an unfortunate fate involving a laser and his… crown jewels.

"First question," the Soviet said. "Who are you, and who do you work for. Obviously, your name is not Simon Warner."

"Why not? It's a common name."

Romanova nodded to Fez, who walked over and slapped Roan across the face. It hurt, but not as much as the confirmation that Roan's reputation hadn't preceded him. He knew he was young, and of course the mission would have failed…ok, failed more quickly, if his cover had been blown, but it would be nice to know that he was at least somewhat known in Moscow.

"Your name doesn't matter that much, anyway," Romanova said. "I know you're American, and you seem to have an interest in your little peace negotiations. You're probably CIA." He leaned in close to Roan. "Perhaps a more important question is how much do you know?"

"Well," Roan made a point of looking thoughtful, "I know that you used too much onion in your borscht today, you cheat at cards, and Bruce Jenner really kicked your guys' ass last year."

That earned another slap.

"Have your fun, CIA Agent," Romanova said. "But your time is running out. I'd say you have, oh, 45 minutes left till the poison does its work."

There was a knock on the door, and the bartender from the other room entered, holding a piece of paper. Romanova took the green-striped sheet, and studied it for a moment. A smile crept to his face. "Exactly what I thought they would do. Everything is going according to plan." He turned back to Roan. "I will be right back. Think about your situation, and realize it's in your best interest to be…accommodating."

Roan knew that being helpful wasn't likely to get him any antidote. Escape was his best interest. Unfortunately, Mr. Fez took the bottle with him as he followed Romanova out.

Masterson remained in the room. "You really should talk," he said to Roan. "This bravado will only get you killed."

"Why exactly are you doing this, Masterson?" Roan asked. The Austrian didn't seem like he fit in with Romanova and the others.

Masterson shrugged. "A few too many bad wagers."

"So you sold your soul to the Soviet government to pay off a few debts?"

Masterson smiled sadly. "If that's what you think you know, then you really are in trouble." With that, he left.

* * *

><p>With the room empty, Roan struggled to free himself from his bonds. They were tight, and only seemed to get tighter with every attempt the CIA agent made to free himself. He still had his knife tucked away, but he didn't seem to have a way to reach it. Things were not looking good.<p>

As his movements got more and more frantic, Roan's vision began to become fuzzy. Romanova was as good as his word; the antidote was wearing off. He was running out of time.

Roan began to wonder if his best bet was to stop wriggling. Thankfully, Romanova hadn't taken his watch. If the poison began to kick in, hopefully it would reduce his heart rate enough that it would register on Bartowski's sensor. Of course, he didn't know if the techie and Agent Gunter had any idea where he was. And even if they did, they'd need to figure out a way to get into the place and rescue him. It was a faint hope at best.

He was too young. He figured he'd made his mark on the CIA to some extent, though apparently not enough to attain any notoriety behind the Iron Curtain. He'd certainly had a positive effect on the many young ladies he'd spent time with. They'd all be very sad if they knew what was happening to him.

Roan's thoughts were interrupted mid-wallow by the sound of the door opening. Figuring that Romanova had come back to interrogate him further, he was about to make some retort when he felt his bonds loosening.

Forcing his head up, he expected to see Gunter or Bartowski. Instead he saw the blonde hair of Romanova's girlfriend.

"We don't have much time," she said. Her voice was sharp but not high-pitched. It was distinctly American. He even detected a slight New England accent.

"Much time for what?" Roan asked as he got to his feet.

"To get out of here, you idiot," she replied, handing Roan a bottle as she did so.

As the CIA agent studied the small flask with uncertainty, the woman said, "For God's sake, it's the antidote! You think I'd free you and then poison you?"

Roan considered the logic of this, and then chugged down the contents of the bottle in one swig.

"Now, we need to hurry and get out of here."

"Wait, who are you?"

The woman looked annoyed, but finally sighed. "Are you really stupid enough to think the Director would entrust this mission to just you? Well, they didn't. My name is Agent Diane Beckman and I'm with the CIA."

* * *

><p><em>February 5, 2011. 11:00 AM, Burbank, CA<em>

Chuck studied the glop of soda all over the flat screen at the Nerd Herd desk. The appearance of General Beckman had caught him by surprise, resulting in the remnants of his mid-morning refreshment having been sprayed all over the monitor. He glanced around the room, and seeing no sign that anyone had witnessed his embarrassing moment, headed to the bathroom to grab some paper towels.

As he returned from the employee washroom, Chuck heard a high-pitched squeal coming from the makeshift office of the Assistant Manager. Pausing, he looked around to see if anyone else had heard it.

Casey was nearby, peddling grills, and he gave Chuck a bemused look. "You heard that too?" Chuck asked.

Casey nodded. "Whatever is going on in there, I want no part of it. It's almost as bad as listening to Jeffster without earmuffs."

"Um, ok. Do you think we need to call in backup?"

Casey chuckled. "I'm sure you can handle it. I would, but I'm due for a break."

Before Chuck could object, Casey vanished into the break room. As he cautiously approached the office, he heard another squeal. Taking only a brief moment to note that Lester's 'AssManOff' sign had finally been removed from the door, Chuck tensed himself. Hopefully, a flash would hit if any immediate danger presented itself.

As the door opened, Chuck saw Big Mike seated at his desk, an uncomfortable look on his face. The object of his unhappiness, and apparently the source of the noise, was seated unhappily in his lap.

It was a white cat, its hackles up, flashing its teeth. It was currently making a hissing sound that Chuck would have otherwise guessed would come from a snake or a leaking air mattress. It gave the room's new occupant a momentary glance, then returned its ire to Big Mike.

"Bartowski!" the assistant manager bellowed. "Get in here!" Once the door had closed, he added in a quieter tone, "Please tell me you know something about these beasts."

Chuck had never had as much as a goldfish as a kid. He'd talked with Sarah about possibly getting a dog at some point, but they'd realized that their duel spy lifestyle wouldn't permit it. So he wasn't exactly experienced when it came to pets. "Uh, I'm not really sure…"

"Look, you've got to help me. I promised Bologna that I'd take Miss Jinxie McLazenby to Pussycats Galore today to get her shots. But the damn thing hates me!"

"Your cat's name is Miss Jinxie McLazenby? Are you…"

"Don't look at me. It's Bologna's cat. I swear she…hey, you alright Bartowski? Not allergic to cats, I hope?"

Chuck stopped as the familiar surge hit his head. Now he had quietly moved over to the still angry cat. He shook his head in response to Big Mike's question as he slowly kneeled down onto the ground and held out his hand. The cat got to its feet and waddled up to sniff Chuck's hand. After a moment of this, Chuck slowly petted the beast, quietly muttering to it. It was probably the quietest flash in the history of the Intersect, but it was effective nonetheless.

"I thought you didn't know anything about cats," Big Mike commented as he studied the now purring Lazenby.

"Just guessing," Chuck responded.

"Well, good guess," Big Mike eyed the cat warily. After a moment, he said, "So, Bartowski, hear you're taking the plunge."

"Yeah," Chuck replied, smiling. "Almost can't believe Sarah said yes."

"I can't believe it either," Big Mike said archly. "Still, congratulations." He leaned back in his assistant manager chair, the one nice item in the otherwise messy office. "You know, Bartowski, family's important. You gotta grab onto that special someone, never let her go. Gotta do everything you can for Blond Girl, wait on her hand and foot if that's what it takes. Because you winning her, that's a win for all of us. Guys like us, we don't get a lotta chances. I mean, I'm lucky to have Bologna, but the rest of these guys? The best Patel and Barnes can hope for are mail-order brides. Unless they finally get honest with themselves and marry each other."

Chuck let that one pass.

"The point is, you have to worship the ground your lady walks on. Keep her happy. Even if it means putting up with her damn cat." He gave a baleful look at the white ball of fur, which had now returned to his lap. "You're going to use all nine of those lives to torment me, ain't ya? Well, I've got bad news, that's all a lie. You only live once. Twice, maybe, if you're lucky."

Big Mike continued to focus his attention on the cat, making Chuck wonder if his complaints about the animal had been all for show. Feeling as if he had been dismissed, he headed out the door, and back into the showroom.

Chuck had every intention of devoting himself to making Sarah happy for the rest of his life, so none of what Big Mike had said had been news to him. Still, Big Mike's devotion to family was kind of inspiring. He had practically adopted Morgan, after all.

In the last year, Chuck had lost his father and found his mother, so he shared the assistant manager's appreciation of the bonds of family. He figured that was why he was so interested in his father's old notes. Sure, the mystery of the fez-wearing Russian had spilled over into his current life, but at points it almost felt like Stephen Bartowski was in the room with him, telling stories of his past. Even if most of the story was about Roan Montgomery.

Chuck returned to the work station and wiped off the monitor. Then, making sure no customers were looking for help, he flipped open the notebook and continued to read.

* * *

><p><em>Ok, this time the delay in updating wasn't my fault. I've been wrangling with the phone company over a lost internet connection for days. They'll turn about anybody into John Casey (Season 1 edition).<em>

_This chapter probably has the most Big Mike of anything I've ever done. I've never really known what to do with him as a character. He's less fleshed out than the main characters, and less cartoony than Jeff and Lester. Sometimes it seems like he's just there to sell subs. But you know what, he was kind of fun to write for._


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11. The Obligatory Ski Chase Chapter**

_February 22, 1977__, __5 PM__, Somewhere in the __Alps__._

"What do you mean, you work for the CIA?"

Agent Beckman's pace didn't slow down, but she did turn around to give Roan an annoyed look. She had led him away from the storage room, down a stairwell, and now quickly through a dark hallway. Roan wasn't sure whether it was the effects of the antidote he had just taken, but he thought he could feel cool air come from in front of him. Hopefully that meant that they were near an exit.

"It seems pretty clear to me," Beckman finally responded to Roan's question. "What don't you get?"

"The Director has had you looking into the deaths at the peace negotiations too?"

"No. My job has just been Romanova. I've been on him as soon as he entered the West."

I'll bet, Roan thought to himself, though he didn't say anything. Seduction was part of the job, after all. The one part he wished he'd get to do more often.

"And to answer your question, no he didn't kill Simon Warner. At least not himself."

"Then who did? Masterson?"

Beckman snorted. "Masterson is nothing more than a dupe. Useful as a front for what Romanova's been trying to do."

"Which includes developing the Klebichok agents."

They'd reached the end of the hallway, leaving only a heavy door in their way. Beckman managed to tug it open, and Roan found the source of the cold air. They found themselves in a small garage, surrounded by several partially opened windows. The only thing Roan could see through the windows was a sheet of fresh snow. Inside, the garage was mostly empty, but there were several pairs of skis lining the wall. As Roan examined the room, Beckman responded to him. "Well, at least you got one thing right."

Roan looked back at the female agent. "Masterson implied that the Soviets aren't actually behind any of this."

Beckman shook her head. "I don't think they are. Alexei likes to brag about how he's become his own man now," she explained wryly.

"Then he's doing this on his own?"

"No." Beckman unhooked a pair of skis from the wall, and handed them to Roan. "He's working for somebody."

"Who?"

After a pause, Beckman admitted, "I don't know." Seeing Roan's face she commented tartly, "I've been a bit busy saving your ass to figure it out. There should be some ski poles over there," she added, pointing to a corner of the garage.

"Are you seriously suggesting we ski our way out of here?"

"No. I'm suggesting _you_ ski your way out of here. My cover's still intact, so I'm not leaving."

"You sure? Romanova's nobody to mess with. What if he suspects something?"

"I can take care of myself. Now go!"

Roan began to strap the skis to his feet. "You know, I'm not really dressed for this," he commented, examining the suit he was still wearing.

"Not my problem. My problem is getting you out of here so I can do my job."

Roan managed to find a pair of goggles and a leftover cap in the garage. Finally, he clomped over to the outer door, and found a nearby slope. He glanced back, but Agent Beckman had already disappeared. Shrugging to himself, he began to descend the mountain.

* * *

><p>As Roan slid down the mountain, he thought back to what Agent Beckman had told him. Romanova wasn't working with the Soviets, but instead with some other unknown person. It was still clear that he was somehow connected with the deaths at the peace negotiations, even if he himself hadn't done the killing. They'd used Masterson, taking over the company under the guise of making it solvent, in order to secretly develop weapons beyond the Iron Curtain.<p>

And all of this had been figured out by Agent Beckman. The diminutive agent wasn't a whole lot older than Agent Gunter, but she had a self-assurance that the other didn't. When Gunter said that she could take care of herself, it sounded like sheer bluster. When Beckman said it, Roan believed her.

She was also quite attractive. And Roan could only imagine that it would take more than just a pretty face to keep Romanova blindly interested. It would take…imagination.

As Roan was considering this, he almost missed the sound of whooshing from above. Luckily for him, he managed to glance back just as a figure on skis took aim with his rifle. Roan dodged the shot, and continued down the slope.

Roan was a decent skier, though most of his ski vacations had involved staying in the lodge with a friendly bunny. So, he was able to slalom his way back and forth down the mountain. This made it even tougher for the man above to hit him; a difficult enough task to do while moving. Still, all it took was one lucky shot and Roan's mission, well, Roan's everything, would be over.

Feeling that he was gaining ground, he decided to get on the offensive. He made a quick cut to the left, too quick for his opposition to follow him. He knew, of course, that it wouldn't take long for Romanova's man to find him, so he went in search of a sturdy pine tree. Once he'd found one, he removed his skis, hid them in the snow, and climbed up the branches.

A few minutes later, the other man appeared. Peering carefully, Roan managed to recognize the bartender from the chalet. As honorable a profession as that was, Roan knew he had to get rid of him. Timing perfectly, he jumped down just as the other man was crossing underneath.

Now atop his enemy, Roan took a swing at the man's face, and managed to grab the shotgun. A moment later, the job was done.

He was only safe for a moment, however. The sound of the gunfire would certainly bring more of Romanova's men downhill. He decided he at least had the chance to switch into warmer clothing. He exchanged his suit jacket for the bartender's winter parka, only briefly wincing at the prospect of wearing another man's blood-stained apparel. Once he'd put the suit jacket on the dead man, he stood him up by the tree. He figured the gambit wouldn't work for long, but he needed whatever time he could get. He retrieved his skis and continued his way down the mountain.

* * *

><p>A minute later, his suspicions were proven right. This time, judging by the loud humming sound coming from above, his pursuers were in snowmobiles. Hardly a fair fight.<p>

At least he was now armed. But shooting someone behind him while moving quickly downhill wasn't exactly an easy proposition. Bullets weren't a whole lot worse than sliding into a tree at the moment.

As he slid downward, Roan heard the sound of distant shots, followed by what sounded like muffled Russian curse words. That was quickly followed by the sound of a motor restarting. He'd bought a minute or so, but not much more.

Not much later, gunfire erupted again, coming from multiple angles. There were two snowmobiles now, descending on opposite sides of Roan. He continued to crisscross down the mountain, but the shots began to get closer.

Roan decided to turn as sharply as he could without slowing down. This almost landed him on his back, but he just managed to keep to his feet. Unfortunately, moving at an angle decreased did decrease his speed enough that he knew they would be on him shortly.

As he heard the oncoming roar of the snowmobile engine, Roan noticed that the trail had opened up into a passage underneath a jutting precipice. Seeing the snowcapped peak of the cliff, he moved behind a tree and waited. Not a second later, one of the snowmobiles came into view. Rather than fire his rifle at his pursuers, Roan aimed for the top of the cliff.

His timing was perfect. The shot hit its mark, loosening a bank of snow. The pile descended on the snowmobile, blocking the vision of the driver. Roan jumped out of the way of the fiery explosion as the vehicle crashed into the tree.

That still left one remaining snowmobile. Roan guess the same trick wouldn't work twice, so he got back onto his skis and head down the mountain. It didn't take long for the second set of pursuers to reach his peripheral vision. He noticed that the marksman on the second car was wearing the telltale fez. Naturally, his newfound friend had come out to play.

At this point, the slope had become clear of rocks, trees, and any other inconvenient obstacles. Unfortunately, this meant that it was also clear of any obstacles to Fez's bullets, which was seriously bad news for Roan.

Things went from bad to worse very quickly. The slope began to level off, and off in the distance Roan could see why. The trail ended in a large crevasse. And it was a little too far to jump across. He was trapped.

* * *

><p>Roan fired a few times at the oncoming snowmobile. He managed to hit the front of the vehicle a few times, but no further damage. A few shots later, and the ammunition was gone.<p>

The snowmobile stopped a few feet in front of Roan. Fez stepped out, his own rifle in tow. He cocked his head, offering up a sly smile.

"I don't suppose you'd grant me a last request," Roan commented.

Fez paused, but said nothing.

"I'm guessing you don't have any drinks with you." Romanova's man shook his head. "How about a cigarette?"

Fez shook his head.

As Roan struggled to think of a plan to delay the inevitable, he heard a sound from above. He blinked, trying to make sense of the rapidly approaching figure in the sky.

As the sound from above continued to become louder, Fez finally noticed what was happening. The other man in the snowmobile was slower on the uptake, however, and didn't see the incoming missile until it was too late. As he sat there gaping, the snowmobile exploded.

Roan wasn't able to recognize the figure until it had reached the ground. For one thing, Agent Gunter was much better dressed for being out in the snow than Roan was. For another, he wasn't used to see her flying. For a third, he certainly wasn't used to seeing her smile as much as she was now.

"What the-?" Roan finally asked.

"He did it!" Agent Gunter finally explained. "He built a jet pack!" She turned to show the metallic contraption strapped to her back. "It's amazing!"

"Great, now he builds something useful," Roan muttered, though he knew that wasn't fair. The wristwatch he'd built had probably led them to find him, after all.

He took a moment to look for the fez-wearing henchman, but he'd disappeared somewhere up the mountain.

Roan checked to see whether the man from the snowmobile could still talk. Unfortunately, the blast's effect had been permanent, and the driver wouldn't be able to answer their, or anyone's, questions any more.

While Roan was doing this, a second jetpack-wearing figure descended from the sky. Stephen Bartowski nodded to Roan then over at the still-beaming Mary.

"These things are amazing, Steve! Flying with this, I've never experienced anything like it!"

"Glad you enjoyed it."

"Do you think I can keep this one?"

"Well, I'm not sure how ownership works with these private contracting deals, so…aw, what the heck."

Roan finally felt the need to clear his throat. The two others looked over at him.

"So, I'm guessing it _was_ a trap," Gunter remarked drily.

"Well, I did learn a few things. Still, I think maybe we should move away from here. Uh," Roan pointed at Steve's pack, "I don't suppose you have a third one of those?"

"'Fraid not, Agent Montgomery. I didn't have a whole lot of time to work, so…"

Wonderful, Roan thought. Before he could ask Agent Gunter if he could hitch a ride, she announced, "I think I should take a trip around the mountain. See if I can find that guy in the fez, or anyone else we could question." Before anyone could respond to her suggestion, she was back in the air.

"She really likes to fly," Steve said drily. "Come on, Roan. Just grab my legs, and I'll get you out of here."

Roan looked hopefully up the mountain, but no enemy agents appeared to save him.

* * *

><p><em>February 5, 2011<em>_. 12:35 PM, __Burbank__, __CA_

"Strannaya Deloski. Age 51. Born in Minsk. Father a low-level party official. Hockey player in his youth, recruited by the KGB out of school."

"And quite the aficionado of unusual headgear."

Casey growled slightly at the interruption, giving Morgan an annoyed look. They were all seated in Castle, using the lunch hour as an opportunity to discuss what the NSA agent had learned about the man they'd seen during the stakeout the previous night. A man that Chuck was already quite familiar with.

"You know we only let you down here for these meetings because Bartowski is too soft-hearted to tell you no," Casey replied, though it was clear that his heart wasn't in to it. In the past couple of years, Chuck had noticed the older man's growls had gone from snarling pitbull to playful cub. Not that he would ever point that out, of course.

He didn't seem to need to, as Morgan waved away the insult. "Please, John, you're not fooling anyone with that mean guy act. Just carry on with the tales of the fez-wearing baddie."

Casey sighed, but continued. "Deloski spent a few years working with the KGB, becoming a fairly trusted lieutenant. Eventually, he wound up following another commie out into the west, and went into business for himself. Now we don't have all of the details on what happened next, but from what I could find…"

"Wait! Don't spoil it!"

Everyone turned to Chuck and gave him a shocked look. He sunk slowly in his seat.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Casey demanded.

"Um, uh…" Chuck's mind was a blank.

"Why don't you let me talk to him," Sarah suggested, and led him into the hallway.

"So," she asked when they were out of earshot, "does this have anything to do with that notebook of your father's you've been so fascinated with lately?"

"Well…" Seeing the look on his fiancee's face, Chuck decided to come clean. "Yeah, this guy Deloski is part of it. He was part of this case that Roan, and my parents, were both involved in. You know, reading my dad's notes has given me a chance to really see both of my parents when they were younger. Plus, I really want to find out what happens next, and I don't want Casey to spoil it." After a momentary pause, "Also, Beckman's there, and she's like this hot double-agent." Chuck finished with an awkward shrug.

Sarah stared at him for what seemed like several minutes, before she finally said, "Give me the notebook."

"What? Are you going to turn it in?"

"No, I'm going to photocopy it, and read it for myself. If this is half as interesting as you say it is…"

Chuck hurried to his locker, and retrieved the notebook. Sarah flipped through the pages, and nodded. "But," she added, "if anything important to this case comes up, we let Casey in."

"Ok." Chuck followed Sarah back into the room.

Casey gave the younger agent a cool look before asking, "Can I continue?"

"Actually," Sarah spoke up, "we don't have a whole lot of time before Chuck and Morgan's lunch breaks end, and they have to return to the Buy More. Maybe you should skip the back story and bring us to the present."

"Fine," Casey said. "But one thing from Deloski's past is important, because the intel suggests that it might be what he's looking for now. Supposedly, he was involved in the development of the Klebichok agent."

"Klebichok's agent? You mean the guy that represents the ice skater?"

Everyone gave Morgan blank looks.

"You know, the famous Russian figure skater? Dominated the World Championships at age 16? Been touring the US for the past year? Wow, I bet her agent is quite important. I mean you should see her. How can anyone watch these skaters from Russia, with the love they show on the rink, it's just…amazing?"

"Um, buddy. I don't think that's what we're talking about," Chuck said gently.

"No? You're sure?"

"Klebichok agents are deadly chemical weapons, you moron," Casey growled, moving a bit back towards angry pit bull territory. "Nothing we want on the black market. Or in the hands of ex-KGB agents with scores to settle." He shook his head at Morgan. "I swear. Figure skating?"

"Hey, Alex loves it too!"

"Man, I don't even want to hear about the weird things you've been getting my daughter into."

Chuck bit his tongue, and he noticed that Sarah had to fight off a laugh. They watched Morgan follow his girlfriend's father out of the room, unsuccessfully attempting to explain the beauty of the triple axel.

"You know what this means," Sarah said once they were alone.

"What?"

"We need to read fast."

_Yup, I had the music from "On her Majesty's Secret Service" in my head when I was working on the ski scene. But how can you have a Bond homage without a somewhat ridiculous winter sport-themed chase scene?_


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12. A Change in Altitude**

_February 22, 1977, 7 PM, Somewhere in the Alps._

"So then the Klebichok agents do exist?"

Roan wasn't in any rush to answer Bartowski's question, so he took another leisurely sip of his Tom Collins. It was adequate at best, but that was good enough for him. "Looks like it," he finally responded to the techie.

"Hmm. I'd always heard that the Soviet facilities were underfunded, and about half of what they claim to be able to do was exaggeration."

"Well, it's not the Soviets that funded it."

Roan, Bartowski, and Agent Gunter were seated in an Innsbruck bar, where the CIA Agent had just finished relating what he had learned during his mission. They'd chosen the bar as a convenient place to meet after their return from Masterson's chalet. While not exactly quiet, it had the right amount of background noise to keep them from being overheard without keeping them from hearing each other. Besides, Roan felt that he deserved a drink after his narrow escape. He nodded over to a nearby waitress, and ordered another Tom Collins.

The waitress glanced over at Mary, who pointed to her empty beer stein and nodded. Bartowski, meanwhile, shook his head and took another gulp of his hot chocolate.

"So, how can we be sure this other CIA Agent – Beckman, right – is the real deal?" To Roan's amusement, he could see that Gunter wasn't thrilled to have yet another agent on the 'team.'

"She was the real deal, I could tell. And she helped me escape. Why would she have done that if she didn't have to?"

"Well, at least we now know a little more about what we're up against," Bartowski commented.

"But we need to learn more soon." Gunter retrieved a newspaper from her bag. "There's been some fallout from what happened in England."

Roan leaned over to study the newspaper, a late edition of _The Washington Post_. The headline read, 'Strong Rhetoric Over Looming Soviet Threat.' A picture underneath depicted Senator Felix, looking much less easygoing than when Roan had seen him in London. The photograph showed him standing at a lectern on the Capitol floor, with his finger pointing outward as he spoke.

"I guess he's been busy since he's returned to the US," Roan commented drily.

"What brought that on?" Bartowski asked. "I thought the peace negotiations were a secret? Why would he bring what happened out into the open?"

"It was a secret, but not to everyone," Roan explained. "But enough people are aware of what happened in London to build up a powder keg. And there's always plenty of anti-communist sentiment floating around, so it doesn't take much rhetoric to fan the flames." As Roan looked through the article, he could see that Felix wasn't the only politician to jump on the bandwagon. Still, it was clear that Roan's instincts were right about him. Like almost any politician, the man was an opportunist.

"And given the apparent involvement of an American in the death of the head of the Soviet delegation," Gunter gave Roan an arch look, "I think things are going pretty similarly in Moscow."

"Probably," Roan replied. He wasn't sure whether the British investigation had gone any further, but he doubted the Soviets had looked into it. Not when they had a convenient, American scapegoat.

"So whoever Romanova's working for," Mary said, "wants us on the brink of a war with the Soviet Union. Why?"

"Two rich Superpowers ready to go to battle," Steve commented thoughtfully, "the perfect way to sell some chemical weapons."

Gunter smiled at the techie. "Good thinking, Steve. But is there really a market when both countries have all the nukes they need?"

"Why face the possibility of mutually assured destruction when you have something more practical and less messy as a second option?" Bartowksi asked in response. "And I'd guess what they've used so far is only a diluted version. The real thing could have much more drastic effects."

"And all the while, Romanova is using fear and hatred to make money."

"Great," Steve commented while taking another sip of chocolate. "So what do we do about it?"

Roan looked around the bar. Six PM had just passed, and the place was beginning to get more crowded. A mix of professionals had come in to celebrate the end of the day, including well-dressed businessmen, an assortment of auto workers, engineers and salespeople, and a stray cop or two. None looked like spies, or anyone in Romanova's employ, but Roan couldn't be sure.

Gunter seemed to feel the same way, as she spoke quietly when she turned back to Roan. "So, your new friend. She give us any idea of what we need to do next?"

From Agent Beckman's actions, Roan guessed that she wanted them to leave her alone to her own devices. But he wasn't about to do that. Regardless of whether she intrigued him, and she did, it was clear that Klebichok agents weren't something to toy with, and the more people working to keep them out of the wrong hands, the better.

He was a professional, after all.

His response to the others was at least partially honest. "We didn't really have time to discuss strategy. If I had to guess, though, I'd say that it's quite unlikely that the weapon was in that chalet."

"So we're stuck then."

Roan's eyes turned from the downcast expressions of his co-agents to the bar entrance. A couple more cops had just entered the establishment, and had now converged on their carousing colleagues. When their hushed dialogue continued for a couple of minutes, Bartowski and Gunter noticed them as well.

"I wonder what that's about?" Bartowski wondered aloud.

"You think it's important?" Mary asked.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Probably nothing," Roan commented. "Probably some petty theft, a mugging or something like that. Probably not a hidden cache of chemical weapons."

"Why not check though?" Gunter stood up. "Maybe I can find something out." She moved over to where the policemen were gathered. Roan watched her for a moment, then turned to Bartowski, who was staring at her.

"It looks like she trusts your instincts more than mine," Roan commented drily. "I guess you've made friends while I was away."

"Hey you told to me to find some way to compete." Bartowski looked over and gave Roan a sly smile. "I found one. Turns out, she loves to fly."

Roan couldn't disagree. Most of the trip to Innsbruck had been punctuated by the sound of the occasional whoop and cheer coming from Agent Gunter's vicinity. She had only stopped flying in circles when Bartowski had reminded her that the jet packs only had a limited supply of power.

The trip back had been less enjoyable for Roan himself. He wasn't afraid of heights, of course. However, the indignity of having to cling to Bartowski's legs wasn't one he wanted anyone to witness, either friends or enemies.

Roan did take some slight satisfaction now in seeing that Bartowski's newfound cockiness had taken a hit at the sight of Mary's flirting with the Innsbruck police officers. Her technique had improved a bit since the party the other day, but Roan could still see that her smiles and occasional "accidental" touches were all for show. The young techie couldn't, and was now pouting into his drink.

A couple of minutes later, Agent Gunter returned and sat back down at the table. "They just found a body out in one of the alleys nearby," she stated immediately. "Gert Masterson's."

Roan wasn't surprised. Romanova had probably decided he was a liability now, and now that they had full control of his company, the Austrian was extraneous. "How?" he asked.

"They said it looked like a heart attack."

Or more likely, something that simulated a heart attack. "They used the Klebichok on him, I'll bet. His own product. So, what are the police going to do?"

"Apparently, just have a drink or two in his memory. Masterson was popular around here. But, they don't see any possibility of foul play, so that's where it ends."

For them, but not for Roan. "I think we're going to pay another visit to that chalet tonight."

"You think Romanova's still there?" Agent Gunter asked.

"No, but he might have left something. Maybe not chemical weapons, but some clue as to their next move." Or more likely, somebody with him might have left a clue.

Still, there was one important thing for him to take care of first. "You can build another one of those jet packs tonight, right?" he asked Bartowski.

"I don't know. I'd have to find the raw materials first, and then I'd have to run the proper diagnostics once I've finished it."

"Well, you'd better get on it then. I am _not_ hitchhiking with you again."

* * *

><p><em>February 23, 1977, 1:00 AM, Somewhere in the Alps<em>

As expected, Masterson's chalet was deserted. None of the telltale signs that the police had been there were in evidence either. If they did go as far as to investigate the Austrian's death, they'd probably head to his primary residence first. If the chalet was even listed under Masterson's name, it probably wouldn't be looked at for a couple of days.

Roan had first checked the storage room he'd been held in, but other than the odd cleaning supply, there were no poisons left inside. The large drawing room that the poker game had been held in also was empty. If Adagio, Trax, and Hamburg were as dead as Romanova had claimed, their bodies had been dumped elsewhere. Even the bar had been cleaned out.

"I thought this place would be a little more…evil," Steve commented while he flipped through a pile of record albums. "I wouldn't have thought a master criminal would have had this much Donna Summer."

"What were you expecting?" Roan asked. "Skulls lining the walls? Anyway, Masterson wasn't exactly a master criminal. More of a guy who got in over his head."

They continued to look around, failing to find anything of value. Roan was about to give up, until he remembered to check the garage that Agent Beckman had lead him to earlier in the day. It took a while for him to retrace his steps down the dark hallway, but soon he managed to find his way.

Very little seemed to have changed. The room still contained the remaining sets of skis, shovels, and other useful items for the snowbound. But no Klebichok agents or anything else of value.

"So that's it?" Agent Gunter asked from behind him. "Nothing in the whole house? So now what do we do?"

Roan wasn't exactly excited about the idea of contacting the Director to tell him they were at a dead end. He knew Romanova was a careful man, and probably wasn't likely to leave any evidence behind. But one of his henchmen could have carelessly left something behind.

Or Agent Beckman could have. She'd said she could handle things on her own, but beneath her bravado, she had to know that she was in very deep and needed all the help she could get. So she might have wanted to leave a clue.

"Hold on," he said, noticing that one of the sets of skis had been moved slightly from earlier in the day. Now they were angled into a 'V' shape, with each ski shifted slightly as if pointing to the window at the other end of the room.

Roan winced as he stepped out into the cold, night air. He looked around the snow standing outside the garage window. Finally he saw a slightly disturbed bank, and began to dig.

"What is it?" Roan heard Bartowski ask behind him. Rather than answer, he continued to dig until he found what he was looking for. He dusted the snow off, and held it up to the moonlight.

"Are you kidding?" Mary asked as she stared at the bottle. "That's your big find?"

"Yes, it is," Roan said, studying the bottle of rum. "It's from Agent Beckman, telling us where we need to go next."

The message they'd been looking for. And even better, a properly chilled one.

* * *

><p><em>February 5, 2011. 3:30 PM, Burbank, CA<em>

"Chuck! Thank God I found you!"

Chuck's eyes darted up from the page he was currently reading, and met the frantic eyes of his brother-in-law. It was an expression he'd only seen on Devon once, when he'd been thrust into Chuck's own spy world. "Devon? What is it?"

"I need your help, Bro!" Devon leaned over the Nerd Herd desk.

"Of course," Chuck replied. "Is Ellie alright? Is Clara?"

Devon nodded wordlessly. Finally he gulped and said, "Yeah, they're fine. For now."

"For now? What do you mean?" Could Deloski have tracked down Chuck's family? Did his connection to the Bartowskis extend beyond one narrow escape on an Austrian mountain almost 35 years ago?

Devon must have seen the panic in Chuck's eyes, as he quickly held up his hand in a calming way. "No, no, it's nothing like what you're thinking. No ninjas or anything like that. It's just…Clara…won't…sleep."

Ah. A slightly more mundane threat, Chuck thought to himself. But still, family helped, and after all, Sarah had quite a few pages to read before she'd catch up to him. "Ok," he asked. "What do you need?"

"Anything to help her sleep," Devon replied. "If Clara's not sleeping, Ellie and I aren't sleeping. She's starting to go a bit crazy, and I… well, I do what I can, and try to be home as often as possible. I've turned away so many shifts at the hospital, they've started calling me 'Doctor No.'"

"Ok…and what do you need me to do? Babysit?"

"Oh man, I don't think Ellie's ready for that. No, I just need something, anything to get Clara to sleep."

Chuck wasn't sure what that would be. He knew of a few items in Castle that could get a 240-pound warlord from Uzbekistan to fall into a deep slumber, but he doubted that's what Devon had in mind. And the Buy More wasn't any more promising in that arena. "Like what, exactly?"

"Well, I was thinking maybe you would have, like a mobile of sheep or something like that?"

"Sheep?" Chuck asked skeptically.

"Sure. So Clara could count them and fall asleep."

"Umm, Devon, I'm not sure she's quite able to count yet."

"Well that's not a problem. There'll only be like five sheep that spin around all the time. So she won't need to count that high."

Chuck was beginning to appreciate his brother-in-law's situation. He'd been skimping on sleep himself, which was apparently enough for Devon's logic to almost make sense. But he still didn't think he could help. "I'm sorry buddy. The Buy More doesn't carry mobiles. We've got plenty of videos, though. Teletubbies, maybe?"

Devon shook his head. "Oh God, no. Ellie and I are barely clinging to our sanity as it is. We don't need to throw another log onto that fire. Look, I appreciate your help. I'm sure we'll figure something out. And I can tell that you're busy." He pointed to the notebook that Chuck had slide under the desk. "Was that spy stuff?" The word 'spy' came out as a hoarse whisper.

"Nothing too important," Chuck replied quickly. "Just basic paperwork really. Not exciting or dangerous at all."

"Ok," Devon said, unconvinced. "Well, you do that. I've got to get home and check on Ellie. Bye to Sarah for me."

As Chuck watched his brother sleepwalk out of the store, he wondered what it must have been like for his parents. With one, or both, of them involved in spy work, how could they have managed the late night feedings and diaper changes? No wonder most spies seem to turn into Roan Montgomery.

Speaking of which, Chuck sat back down at his desk and retrieved the notebook. Maybe Sarah had caught up to him by now.

* * *

><p><em>Once again I have to apologize for the slow updating. I'll do better, I promise (I know I've said that before...)<em>

_I hope everyone is still enjoying the story, and that you haven't strained your eyes from all the rolling at the various James Bond references._

_Please let me know how I'm doing! I'm only paid in feedback here._


	14. Chapter 13

_The following is a list of items that are mentioned in this chapter, but I do not own: "Chuck," a tiny umbrella, any tomato juice, a white bikini, a yacht, _The Washington Post_, or the Island of Jamaica._

_The following is a list of how much I would like the above items: very much (at least for now), take it or leave it, not thanks, nope, absolutely, couldn't make it profitable, and sure why not._

**Chapter 13. I'd Rather be Underneath the Mango Tree**

_February 23, 1977, 3 PM, Jamaica (mon)._

Roan had never understood why people put umbrellas in drinks. Sure, he supposed they provided some extra cheer, and told the drinker-to-be that he or she was in for a festive experience. But as far as Roan was concerned, the drink itself was supposed to do that, not what was floating inside it. In his job, he'd learned a thing or two about misdirection. Using something flashy to take someone's attention away from what was important was a useful skill. He just wished bartenders didn't waste their time with it.

That was just about the only thing that Roan didn't like about Jamaica. Or at least it was up until that particular moment. Now, he could add the antiseptic conference room he was seated in to that list. He wouldn't even turn away one of those umbrella drinks right now.

There wasn't anything particularly offensive about the room, except for the fact that it _was_ a room. By definition, that meant it was indoors, rather than out in the Jamaican sun. It certainly could have used a window or two, but since it was in the very center of the building's fifth floor, all that one would have been able to see through them was more rooms. To make matters worse, the CIA had put this particular room in a building that was located by the beach. Of course, anyone looking at it from the outside wouldn't know it was a CIA building. According to the signs, and any publicly available paperwork, the building was the headquarters of a company that manufactured and distributed lawn furniture. Or at least that's what Roan thought it said. He hadn't actually paid that much attention.

Agent Gunter and Bartowski didn't seem to care about any of this. Their initial doubts about Agent Beckman's message seemed to subside once Bartowski managed to do some research and confirmed that the mysterious company that had bought out Masterson did own a separate subsidiary in the Caribbean. The two of them had spent much of the time on the plane ride talking amongst themselves. Roan hadn't really paid any attention to either of them, figuring they were just hashing out their next plan of attack.

Fortunately, the two had remained quiet once they'd arrived at the island. The three of them had been taken directly from the airport to the CIA building, and then had been ushered into the room as soon as they'd arrived. That was fifteen minutes ago. Fifteen minutes he could have been on the beach, taking in the…scenery.

Finally, the door opened, and the Director himself walked in, followed by Miss Sparchange. The secretary handed everyone a packet, and managed to secretly flash Roan a grin when the Director wasn't looking.

"Despite your best efforts to screw everything up," the Director announced once Miss Sparchange had left, "you managed to uncover a real problem." He motioned for them to open their packets. Roan did so, and found several pages documenting a money trail, working its way back from Masterson's biotechnology firm. Part of the records matched what Bartowski had found; the company that had bought out Masterson and had an office down in the Caribbean was called Lazenby Holdings, Inc. But it had several other names as well, and seemed to stretch throughout the world.

"Osata Technology, Tananga Products Worldwide," Bartowski read. "Fulcrum Industries – that one sounds like a chain of hardware stores. All of these are part of the same company?"

"Fronts, from the look of things," the Director replied. "Under the umbrella of a single organization."

"SPIRIT?" Roan read from the top of one of the pages.

"SPIRITE, actually. With an 'E' on the end," Agent Gunter commented.

"Supervillains aren't much for spelling, are they," Stephen commented, earning a quick smile from Mary.

"Maybe it stands for something."

"Right. The Society for the Proliferation of Illicit, Revolting, Insane, and Terrorist Endeavors, maybe," Steve suggested.

Mary looked like she was about to reprimand him, but then said, "or how about the Society for the Production of Insidious, Reprehensible, Immoral and Terrible Efforts?"

"Hmm. That's good. Maybe the Secret Party for the Indoctrination of Really Insane, Terrible Events?"

"Ooh, Indoctrination. Nice."

"If you two have finished?" the Director finally burst out. Roan had been watching his face turn gradually more red during the exchange between Mary and Steve, until it seemed like he was either about to have a coronary, or leak tomato juice. Once the room had become quiet, the Director shook his head at Roan. "God help us all if _you're_ the mature one on this team."

"Now, in case everyone has forgotten," the Director continued, "we have a largely unknown entity that seems to want to sell chemical weapons to the Soviets. We can't let that happen." He turned back to the young techie. "Tell me, Mr. Bartowski. Can you develop something that can detect these Klebichok agents?"

"Well, without knowing the full chemical structure, it might be a challenge, but if you allow for an inflated rate of false positives…"

The Director held his hand up. "Fine, fine. I just need you to do it. And quickly."

"You know," Steve said, thoughtfully, "from what I've seen, I think it may be possible to set something up that would stimulate a chemical change. Turn the agent into its harmless breakdown products."

"Interesting," the Director said, "I think, though, that we should focus on detection for now."

"Really, once that's been established, the additional work to develop the chemical change algorithm wouldn't take…"

"It doesn't matter. The CIA's interest is in detection and retrieval only."

Roan watched Bartowski's eyes narrow. "Wait a second. You don't want to destroy the Agent. You aren't thinking that we keep the Agent ourselves?"

"There's no 'we', Mr. Bartowski," the Director said icily. "The decision lies with the US Government. And if _we_ feel that possession of the Klebichok agents is vital to national security, that is precisely what we'll do."

"Sir, I don't think you realize the danger," Steve pressed on. "Everything we've seen is just the diluted form. At full potency, it won't be just a single person here and there being infected. Released into a public place, who knows what could happen?"

"That's precisely why we need to reclaim them." The Director's patience was clearly wearing thin.

"And then what? We hope that they don't get released by accident, or some crazy person doesn't get a hold of them?"

Before the Director could retort again, there was a slight knock on the door, and Miss Sparchange entered. "Sir, there's a phone call for you. They say it's urgent."

The Director sighed, and stood up. As he was leaving, he turned to them. "Just do as I tell you, please."

Once he had gone, Mary turned to Steve, her expression stony. "And what exactly was that supposed to accomplish?"

Steve threw up his hands. "He just wants to keep chemical weapons lying around! You know how dangerous that is?"

"Less dangerous with us than in someone else's hands," the female agent replied.

"How can you know that?"

"Because I happen to believe in the agency I work for. In case you haven't forgotten, I happen to be one of these people you have such little faith in. Do you think _I_ would release chemical weapons?"

Roan decided he didn't want to listen to any more. Without excusing himself, he left the room and found his way outside.

* * *

><p>The sun was beginning to set, giving the shoreline a crimson glow. Other than the crashing waves, the beach was quiet. This was fine by Roan, at least for the moment. Still an empty beach meant no bikini-clad friends to be made.<p>

At least he was away from the meeting. The least interesting thing about his job was the politics, as far as he was concerned. He'd taken an introductory to political science course in college, mainly due to the number of beautiful women standing in line to register for it. He'd slept through most of the classes, but managed to fake his way to an A, which had helped him get recruited by the CIA.

The action of the mission was good. The post-mission celebration was better. But the inactivity, planning and endless debate was what he could do about.

He had half a mind to go find this mysterious SPIRITE's offices now. From the packet he knew the Lazenby Holdings headquarters was only a few miles away. He couldn't go in there as a member of the CIA, of course. He had no authority here in Jamaica. But he could always improvise his way in. All it took was one impressionable receptionist.

As he was considering his plan, the sound of splashing by the water. Turning, Roan saw a white figure in the waves. As he watched, the figure, a decidedly female one, took to her feet and walked onto the shore.

When the woman tossed aside her snorkel mask, Roan recognized Agent Beckman. That conveniently gave him the chance to return his attention to what she was wearing. The white bikini certainly did her justice, without question. He stood there on the beach silently, taking his time admiring the engineering achievements of her two piece suit – among other things. After a moment, she sensed someone watching, and met his gaze.

"I guess you got my note," Beckman commented.

"I did. It was quite satisfying." Roan gestured at the surrounding beach. "Your friend really knows how to pick his vacation spots."

"More business than vacation, I'm afraid. And not really his choice."

So Romanova wasn't calling the shots, Roan thought. "So no fun for you?" he said aloud.

Beckman shook her head.

"Still, I approve of his choice of dress code," Roan's eyes strayed back to the bikini.

"I'm here to deliver a message," Agent Beckman said, forcing Roan's attention back.

"From Romanova?"

"From me. And I don't have much time."

Roan nodded. "I take it he's nearby."

"For now." Beckman gestured back to the ocean. "His yacht. But he won't be napping much longer."

Roan was impressed. He couldn't see any boats in the distance, so Beckman must be a very strong swimmer.

"What's the message?"

"There's a meeting tomorrow. With an emissary of the Soviet government."

"A potential buyer?" Roan asked. "For the Klebichok agent?"

"I don't know for sure. But I wouldn't put it past him."

This was bad news, and Roan would definitely have to relay it to the Director.

Seeing that Beckman had retrieved her snorkel mask and was headed back to the ocean, he said, "That's it? That's all the information you can give?"

"It's all I have. And I have to get back."

Raon smirked. "I trust you'll give our friend my best."

Beckman looked like she was about to retort, then smiled. "Should I be impressed with that?"

"Trust me, my best is very impressive."

The female agent rolled her eyes. "Well, trust me, I'd just as soon not. He seems to think that good hygiene is beneath him, and his breath smells like beets."

Roan watched her swim back out into the water, then headed back inside.

* * *

><p>Roan returned to the conference room to find Bartowski and Agent Gunter staring at each other silently. Undaunted by the chilly atmosphere, he took a seat and waited. His amusement at his cohorts' discomfort didn't make up for his restlessness, though. He wanted to act, especially after what Agent Beckman had told him.<p>

Finally, the Director returned to the room. His brisk pace and set expression seemed to indicate that the phone call had not gone well.

"We have a problem. _The Washington Post_ is set to run an article tomorrow describing Simon Warner's death, including details on the meetings he was attending in London. I am to return to DC and join a meeting with the President and the Joint Chiefs tomorrow morning. I don't think I need to explain the added urgency to your mission."

"Sir, there's something more you need to know." Roan relayed what he'd learned from Beckman to the others. Needless to say, the Director was less than thrilled by the news.

"Lucky for me, I get to be the one to deliver the news to the President of how poorly this mission has gone. If the Soviets get their red hands on the Klebichok agents, then our worst fears will be realized. There's no more time for you to waste."

He turned to Bartowski. "You are to fly to Miami immediately. The CIA has a laboratory there, and you are to work around the clock to develop that detection system, and only that detection system. You will have a team of CIA scientists at your disposal. They will do as you ask…within reason. And know that they will be in communication with me in case you decide to improvise."

Bartowski silently nodded.

"And I'm going to need results immediately, as Agents Montgomery and Gunter will be paying a visit to the offices of Lazenby Holdings tomorrow morning, and I'd rather not have them do so empty-handed." He turned to Roan and Mary. "I'll leave it up to you to decide what ruse you'll use to get in there, but you are going to need to search the place from top to bottom. We need to recover the agent before the Soviets get it."

The Director's last statement apparently was a dismissal. Steve stood up, looked at the others uncertainly, then walked out of the room. A moment later, Mary followed.

Before the Director could leave, Roan approached. He still had some doubts about the plan. "What if the Agents aren't at the Lazenby office? Agent Beckman said she was on a yacht with Romanova. Maybe he has them on him."

The Director studied Roan for a moment. "Yes, your Agent Beckman. I am quite familiar with her. Very ambitious. To be honest, I wouldn't put it past her to leak the Warner story to the press. Perhaps build up her own role in everything. Even if she didn't leak anything, I don't trust her lofty aspirations. Seems to think she'll be General someday, if you can believe that."

Roan suddenly remembered what Lottie had said about her difficulties with working at MI-5 as a woman.

"In any event, she's put in a transfer to the NSA, and as far as I'm concerned she can have it. Frankly, I'd take everything she says with a grain of salt. And even if it's true, do you know where this yacht is, or what it looks like? We have one real lead, and that's Lazenby Holdings. Give it the attention it's due."

With that, the Director left.

* * *

><p><em>February 5, 2011. 6:45 PM, Echo Park, CA<em>

Chuck glanced up from the notebook to study the uncharacteristically quiet Bartowski kitchen. Part of it, of course, was due to the missing third roommate. But the main reason was that in the last hour since they'd finished dinner, both Chuck and Sarah had been fully immersed in reading.

Chuck was slightly impressed that Sarah had taken to his father's writing as much as she had. Because she didn't have the benefit of the flashes to let her know who was actually who in the story, Chuck had provided her with a guide, which she occasionally consulted. But she hadn't said anything further about the writing style or technical implausibilities, which suited Chuck just fine. In face, she seemed as interested in the story as he was.

Finally, Sarah looked up and caught Chuck's eye. "How far are you in?" Chuck asked.

"The poker game," his fiancée responded. "You?"

"Uh, a bit ahead of that." He figured he'd let Sarah catch up before discussing anything he'd just read.

Sarah cleared the dishes off the kitchen table, and walked over to the sink. As she was loading the dishwasher, Chuck returned to the notebook. A moment later, he was interrupted by a "Huh."

"What is it?" Chuck looked up. Sarah was staring out the kitchen window.

"Well, I think we may need to intercede out there, or we're going to have an unobstructed view to a killing."

Chuck quickly jumped up, and went to the window. While the courtyard seemed quiet, he could just make out some movement in the parking lot beyond. He leaned in to try to get a closer look. "Is that Casey?"

"Uh huh."

Chuck couldn't make out his face, but judging from the man's gestures, posture, and years of experience, he could tell that the NSA agent was angry. He was also leaning down at a car that wasn't his.

It was Morgan's.

"Oh boy. What did he see?"

A moment later, Casey opened the door, and dragged Morgan out of the driver's seat. Chuck couldn't see the panic in his friend's eyes, but he knew it would be there. At least Morgan was dressed, though it looked like his shirt was very untucked.

"Maybe we should step in?"

"Wait." Sarah pointed to the other side of the car. Alex had just jumped out and rushed up to her father. From the little Chuck could make out, Alex had inherited her father's temper. Casey had released Morgan, and had backed away slightly. Alex could hold her own against Casey, even if Morgan couldn't.

Finally, Casey walked away, and Morgan and Alex returned to the car.

"I guess the big guy's still a bit new to the whole parenting thing," Chuck remarked.

"Well, he missed out on a lot. I think he's trying to catch up on the whole teenage daughter experience now. I think the whole 'attacking the boyfriend' thing is a rite of passage."

Chuck smiled at her. "Your dad ever do that?"

Sarah shook her head. "I wasn't exactly popular in high school, remember? He never got the chance. I think the closest he's ever come is calling you shnook."

"Glad to be of service. And you probably had it better than Ellie. I had to fill in for Dad when she brought dates home. I don't think I was very effective."

"Well, I'm sure Ellie could take care of herself."

"Yeah." Chuck helped Sarah load the dishwasher silently, and then went back to wipe off the kitchen table. After a while, he said, "Sarah, do you ever wonder if we could do it, as spies? Be good parents?"

Sarah gave Chuck a pointed look. "You know, maybe we should focus on planning our wedding first, before we get into that."

Chuck knew she was uncomfortable in talking about family and the future. "Ok, but eventually we are going to need to talk about it."

Sarah smiled. "And we will, eventually. But at the moment, we should focus on our mission. Then maybe we can name our firstborn. Just promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"If we ever have a boy, we're not naming him Roan."

"No problem. What is that even short for, anyway?" Chuck wondered aloud. "Roanathan? Roanstopher?"

"I guess that little tidbit isn't revealed in your Dad's story?" Sarah asked, as she retrieved her copy. "Maybe if we keep reading we'll find out."

"Good idea." Chuck grabbed the notebook, and followed her into the living room. He sat down on the couch, and a moment later Sarah joined him, her head on his lap.

"Chuck?" she said a few minutes later.

"Hmm."

"We will talk about it, you know. I promise. Just be patient with me."

* * *

><p><em>I probably didn't describe it well enough for it to be obvious, but Beckman coming out of the water was supposed to be a nod to the infamous scene with Ursula Andress in 'Dr. No' (and later redone with Halle Barry in 'Die Another Day.') Somehow, evoking the full imagery of Beckman in a bikini was a bit more than I could muster – though I'll let anyone curious try a Photoshop experiment (note – I don't own Photoshop and am not advocating its use or purchase, that was only an example).<em>

_Again I apologize for the recent slow update pace. It'll get better. And we're actually nearing the home stretch. _

_As always, please review and let me know how things are going!_


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14. The Audit Job**

_February 24, 1977, 9 AM, Jamaica._

"I am _not_ wearing that."

"But you can't just go into the Lazenby office looking like yourself. Romanova knows what you look like, and may have passed your description around."

As far as Roan was concerned, there was absolutely nothing wrong with looking like himself. He did understand Agent Gunter's concerns, though. His appearance could have been passed along through the SPIRITE ranks, so going in as himself did pose some risks. Still, there was a right way and a wrong way to do things, he thought, as he eyed the wig in Mary's hand with distaste.

"I suppose you have an eye patch to go with it?" he asked. The wig was ridiculous, a mop of black hair that wouldn't look convincing on anyone. If he put it on, it would practically scream 'I'm not who I say I am,' immediately followed by 'I don't know what I'm doing.'

"It's the best I could come up with," Agent Gunter explained. "We haven't had a lot of time to prepare."

That much was true. Normally, some reconnaissance would be undertaken prior to invading enemy territory. Unfortunately, the Director hadn't given them enough time to do this. In fact, until they'd received the package from Miami early in the morning, they hadn't been sure the mission would even take place.

Bartowski had been as good as his word, as the package contained what appeared to be the Klebichok detection device the Director had ordered him to build. It looked like an asthma inhaler, but with a sensor at one end. If the agent was nearby, presumably the light on the sensor would turn red. At least that was what Roan assumed; there hadn't been a chance to test it out.

In order to find out if Bartowski's device did work, they'd have to get inside the Lazenby office. And then, assuming the agent actually was there, they'd find out soon enough. But getting inside was step one, and it was clear he'd have to clamp down on Agent Gunter's enthusiasm if they wanted to do it right.

"Look," he explained patiently, "the most important part of a disguise isn't what you wear. It's believing that you're the person you want everyone else to see you as. A wig, or some put-on accent, isn't going to do that."

"So what do you suggest?" Agent Gunter asked.

"We just need to play on their own fears a bit."

* * *

><p>Much better, Roan thought to himself as he studied his reflection in the mirror. While the makeshift CIA office didn't offer much in the way of comfort, it at least had a selection of items that allowed for a more suitable disguise. All he'd needed was a suit and some hair dye. At first he'd hadn't been too anxious to use the grey color, but it was clear that he wore it well. When he looked in the mirror, all he saw was a more debonair, distinguished version of himself.<p>

He left the room to find Agent Gunter waiting outside, looking petulant. "I still don't know why this would work. Don't you think they'd know that no one was coming to check their books?"

Mary fidgeted with the glasses she was wearing as she said this. Dressed in a white blouse, and long wool skirt, her appearance perfectly matched Roan's intentions. The glasses were a nice touch, too. He answered, "You've seen the notes. SPIRITE is a vaguely interconnected web of companies. There won't be a lot of communication between the different branches. I doubt anyone at Lazenby will know anyone outside of that building. Which means it will be an office full of middle manager types. And if there's one thing they're paranoid about, it's the possibility of doing the wrong thing in front of a higher-up. So they won't question a thing we say, as long as they believe we, or at least I, outrank them. But we don't have time to debate, so let's go."

Once they had finished with their disguises, they headed down to the car that had been left for them by the CIA. The drive was short, but the roads were rough, to say the least. As they were driving, Roan asked, "You're clear with the plan?"

"Of course."

"Then all we have to worry about is that this toy of your boyfriend's actually works."

"Bartowski's hardly my boyfriend," Mary glared at him.

Roan chuckled. "You sure about that?"

"He's very good at his job, and I admire him for that. That's it." After a moment, she added, "We come from two different worlds, and we clearly believe different things."

Roan shrugged. "Doesn't seem like much of an obstacle to me. And you shouldn't underestimate the benefit of some pre-mission…stress-relieving."

"Yeah, I've heard all about your reputation for relieving yourself with every woman you can find," Mary replied tartly.

"And do I seem stressed to you?"

Agent Gunter didn't have an answer for that. And why would she? Going undercover, pretending to be someone he was not, was the best part of his job. Or second best, next to all the beautiful women. And the two often seemed to go hand in hand.

The rest of the car ride was quiet, but short, and they soon arrived at Lazenby Headquarters. The building was fairly small, about three stories of generic brick and siding, with a nondescript logo in the front. It certainly didn't give off a vibe of international terrorism. Agent Gunter commented as much as they left the car.

"Well, what did you expect? Their offices to be inside a volcano?" Roan led Mary up to the entrance, holding the door for her as she entered. Once inside, he moved in front of her and marched up to the front desk.

The receptionist was a native to the island, wearing a white linen shirt much like Agent Gunter's. She looked uncertain when she saw Roan enter the building, and even more uncertain when she saw his face.

"I'm here for the audit," Roan announced unceremoniously.

"Audit?" the woman asked.

"Well, of course." Roan looked over at Mary. "I told them to keep things quiet, but you'd think they'd at least know enough to notify reception." Turning back to the receptionist, "Yes of course, the audit. I'm from the front office, and here to make sure the proper protocol is being run."

The receptionist studied them for a moment. "Perhaps I'd better call my boss."

"Perhaps you should."

A moment after the young woman put down the phone, a short, balding man hurried out of the nearby elevator. Unlike the receptionist, he wasn't from the Island. Perhaps due to the heat, or perhaps due to the current situation, there was a fair amount of sweat on his forehead. He gave Mary only the slightest glance, then turned to Roan. "I'm Winton Brandt. I run things here. What is this about an audit?" He had managed to muster up some defiance, though Roan could see through it. He was little more than a middle man, one unlikely to know the truth behind his company.

"That's right. I trust you have everything ready."

"I know nothing about any audit!"

"It figures," Roan commented, then turned to Mary. "You didn't call ahead to let them know we were coming?"

Agent Gunter's face was all innocent confusion. "I thought this was supposed to be a surprise audit?"

"Well, of course it's not a surprise audit! They were supposed to get all of their paperwork ready beforehand. Now this is going to take twice as long!" He shook his head and flashed a quick, conspiratorial smile at Brandt. "Women, right?"

The man nodded, apparently thrilled to be part of the feigned camaraderie. A moment later, he appeared to take this as a sign to push his case. "I understand the predicament, but really you must have the wrong place. This is the Lazenby front office. If there was to be an audit, it would have been administered by me."

Roan made a point of rolling his eyes. "Of course I'm not from Lazenby front office! My orders came from much higher. Surely you know this is part of a conglomerate, don't you?"

Brandt was either crushed at being reminded of his own middling status, or by the rebuke from his supposed new ally. "Well, of course I do know that we have several sister companies…"

"Sisters, brothers, uncles, you name it. Let's just say that I'm from Great Grandpa. And he's a bit concerned about the way things are run over here. You don't want to get written out of his will, do you?"

This seemed to satisfy, or at least scare, the manager. "Tell me what you need."

"Why don't you talk to my secretary over here," Roan replied, pointing to Mary. "She'll make sure you get everything we need." Turning back to Agent Gunter, he added, "Don't forget, we need all shipping and receiving documentation for the last three years. And no sneaking off for a cigarette either. Since you decided this was a 'surprise' audit, you can make sure we make up some of the time. In the mean time, I need to call the head office." Turning back to the receptionist, he asked, "Is there a phone I can use?"

"We have one right here," the woman responded, smiling politely.

"No, that won't do. I need to give an accounting of everything so far, and it would be best not to have any prying ears."

The manager nodded. "Celia, why don't you show Mr…"

"Mr. Trevelyan," Roan responded, handing the other man the business card he'd had prepared earlier in the day.

"Mr. Trevelyan to my office. He can call from there."

* * *

><p>Roan wasn't surprised to see the red light on the sensor. As clueless as Brandt seemed to be, it was unlikely that he even knew what the Klebichok agent was. If that was an act, he wasn't going to bring a stranger to its location.<p>

Roan glanced around the office, checking to see if anything else of value would turn up. It was a fairly generic office, with a few drab landscapes on the wall, and the usual set of functional furniture. A typewriter stood on the desk, and the bookshelf mainly contained management-how-to books. Even the booze in the bottom desk drawer was low-end.

Roan decided it was time to move on. He slowly opened the door, making sure no one else was around. There were a few other offices along the way, containing busy or semi-busy employees, but none piqued either Roan's or the sensor's interest. One person looked up at him curiously, so he made a point of holding up the sensor to his mouth and coughing. Satisfied, and unconcerned, with the apparent asthma attack, the Lazenby employee and Roan both returned to work.

Eventually Roan found a stairwell and headed downward. He was about to open the door leading to the hallway, but stopped when he saw a guard walking by. A heavily armed guard, which didn't seem necessary for a place like this. Once the guard had passed, Roan quietly followed him.

As he slowly traced the guard's steps, Roan recognized the bearing and precise movements that only came from a military training. That, along with the firepower, both seemed out of place here. Unless, you knew who Lazenby belonged to.

The guard stopped at an iron door, and began punching numbers into a key lock next to it. Roan wasn't close enough for the sensor to be in range, but if the Klebichok was in the building, this seemed like a good candidate. He needed to get in there.

But at the moment, there wasn't a good way to do that. He'd have to wait. Unfortunately, as he backed away, his foot made the slightest squeak on the floor. The guard whirled around, the muzzle of his gun pointed at Roan.

"Come here," the guard commanded.

Roan put his hands over his head, moving slowly forward. "I seem to have gone down to the wrong floor. I was trying to get back to the entrance."

Once he was in range, the guard grabbed him with his paws, and frisked him. Reaching Roan's suit jacket, he paused at the inside pocket, and retrieved the sensor. He studied it curiously.

"My inhaler," Roan explained. "The heat down here in Jamaica can be a bit tough on me."

The guard tilted the sensor, allowing Roan to see the still-green light. When he flipped it around to examine the light, Roan saw his chance. He made a quick stab with his hand into the guard's solar plexus, then grabbed the hand holding the gun. Figuring this wasn't a time for style points, he then kneed the man in the groin. With the guard on the ground, and having released his firearm, all Roan needed to do was hit him in the head with the butt-end of the gun, and he was unconscious.

Remembering the code that the guard had entered into the key lock, Roan repeated it, and opened the door. He dragged the guard inside and had a look around.

As far as he, and the Klebichok detector, could tell, the room was completely chemical weapon-free. Instead, it was mainly filled with communications equipment, as well as a large computer terminal. Roan quickly moved over to one of the terminals, displaying a radar detector. After a few bleeps, he knew where he had to go next.

A crackle from behind returned Roan's attention to the unconscious guard. He knelt down to examine the man, and found a small earpiece. He removed it and stuck it inside his own ear.

"Vesper! Come in. You there?" Roan recognized the faint accent of the receptionist.

"Look, if you're not too busy fooling around," the woman's voice continued, "I'm sure these two people are the ones Romanova warned us about. The older man went off to make a phone call, or so he said. If he's this Montgomery, then he's more dangerous than he looks. I can take care of the woman."

Damn. Agent Gunter was in trouble. He'd have to hurry.

As he rushed back upstairs, Roan nearly ran into Brandt, carrying a stack of papers with him. Gambling on the man's cluelessness, the CIA Agent slowed his pace, and shifted his bearing back to that of the officious Trevelyan. "You!" he barked. "Where is my secretary?"

"Oh, she's in Conference Room B, down the hall. Here," he handed the papers to Roan, "these are the receiving logs from 1975. They'd been misfiled. You'll need them."

Roan grabbed the papers, and headed off to find his partner.

* * *

><p><em>February 5, 2011. 10:00 PM, Echo Park, CA<em>

"You what?"

Casey clearly still had some leftover aggression from his run-in with his daughter and Morgan earlier in the day. Chuck wished Sarah had been willing to wait to call him until the next morning, but she had been clear that the NSA agent needed to be brought in now. Which is why he now sat on their couch, fuming.

"We weren't sure what it was at first," Sarah explained patiently. She was standing between him and Casey, which Chuck found somewhat reassuring. "But there are too many parallels to what's going on now with Deloski. We need to look into them."

She handed Casey Chuck's notebook. He flipped through the pages for a few minutes, reading silently. "Well," he finally said, "it's no Tom Clancy, that's for damn sure. You say your father wrote this?" he asked.

Chuck nodded.

"Good thing he never quit his day job. Who are these people?"

"Well, the main guy is…Roan, actually." Seeing the confusion in Casey's expression he added, "The names in there were embedded in the Intersect."

This set Casey off again, and he jumped to his feet. "You mean this thing made you flash, and you didn't think it was important?"

Chuck shrugged. "My dad was a weird guy sometimes. It seemed like it was for me personally, not the CIA."

"Chemical weapons aren't personal, Bartowski," Casey growled.

"I know that, Casey. That's why we called you."

Casey looked like he was going to say something further, but finally he sighed, and sat back down again. He leafed through the notebook a little longer, his face intent with concentration.

As a peace offering, Chuck went to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of beer. Casey took it wordlessly. "So, everything ok? Whaddya say we just live and let live, huh?"

Casey smirked. "_Live_ wasn't the word I was thinking of. But our priority is to find the Klebichok agent. You can die another day."

"Gee, thanks." Chuck walked over to Sarah and waited while Casey continued to read. "So, what do you think?"

Casey looked up. "I think I know what we need to do to finish that."

"What's that?"

"Have a talk with Roan Montgomery."

* * *

><p><em>Will Agent Mary Gunter survive? Will she ever get the chance to become Chuck's mother…Hmm, I guess that's not much of a cliffhanger.<em>

_Try again._

_Will the Lazenby offices get trashed in an epic battle? Will the cleaning crew have a huge mess on their hands. Stay tuned till the next episode of "From Burbank With Love."_

_Better._

_As always, thanks everyone for loyally sticking by this story, and reviews – as always – are valued._


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15. Live and Let Dive**

_I'll take "Entertaining Spies" for $200, Alex._

"_Ok. The clue is 'James Bond and Chuck.'"_

"_What are two things I do not own?"_

"_Correct."_

* * *

><p><em>February 24, 1977<em>_, __11:40 PM__, __Jamaica__._

Roan quietly pushed the conference room door open to see Agent Gunter's back turned away from her assailant. The secretary had a letter opener in her hand and was advancing slowly on her Mary. Roan started to reach for the gun he had tucked away, but decided the noise could bring too much attention to them. He looked around for another weapon, but didn't see one, so the only option he seemed to have was to yell. Hardly a dignified solution, but he couldn't really let another partner die.

Before Roan could let a sound out, though, Agent Gunter whirled around and pushed the secretary onto the table. The other woman quickly regained her balance, and set upon Mary once again, knocking her to the ground. Roan decided that noise was no longer an issue, and pulled out his firearm. He couldn't get a clear shot, so he moved to the other end of the room.

The secretary was holding the letter opener up to Agent Gunter's neck. As Roan tried to find a workable angle, Mary scissored her legs around a chair, and pushed it around, knocking her adversary to the ground. As the young CIA agent got to her feet, a pool of red formed onto the carpet. The secretary had landed on the letter opener.

As Agent Gunter caught her breath, she looked up to see Roan watching. "Thanks for your help," she commented wryly.

"I don't think you needed it."

"So it looks like Lazenby Holdings isn't quite as in the dark as we thought."

Roan shrugged. "I think Lazenby's chain-of-command is a bit misleading. As far as SPIRITE goes, the secretaries and security guards outrank the managers. How'd you know she was dirty?"

"The brass over there," Agent Gunter pointed to a plaque on the wall, apparently some credential from a local Chamber of Commerce. "I saw her reflection. So did you find the Agent?"

"No, but I found where we need to go next. But first," Roan added, "we should probably clean up here. I'd rather not have anyone notify Romanova that we're on his trail."

Roan cracked open the door and looked outside. Seeing nobody, he stepped outside. A moment later, he was accosted by the manager. "Is everything ok?" the man asked.

Roan looked down to see the clump of papers he'd been handed earlier. "Just about," he replied. "But we do seem to be missing the July 1975 records."

"I'll tell my secretary to see if she can find them."

Roan blocked his way. "I don't think so. My report clearly states that upper management must be able to access to all requisitions and receipts. You wouldn't want me to put an 'X' on that row, would you?"

The manager shook his head. "I'll see if I can find them." He scurried off.

Returning to the conference room, Roan said, "I bought us some time. Now we need to move this body downstairs, out of sight."

It was slow work, but fortunately the manager was too busy looking for his missing paperwork to reappear, and the secretary was soon safely locked away. "Now what?" Agent Gunter asked once they'd returned to the car.

"Now, we need a boat."

* * *

><p><em>February 24, 1977<em>_, __2:30 PM__, __15 miles off the coast of Jamaica__._

"We're almost there."

Roan looked up briefly as he finished putting on his wetsuit. Steve was standing at the helm of the motorboat, his eyes intent on the screen. They'd been surprised to find him waiting for them when they'd returned to the CIA building. The young techie had admitted it hadn't been easy, and it had taken some convincing to allow him to return. They'd finally been swayed by his claim that he'd need to double-check all of the equipment. "It helps that nobody up high seems to understand chemistry, biology or engineering," Steve had explained. "Made it easier for me to convince them."

Once he'd heard what had happened to Roan and Mary, he'd immediately set about finding a boat for them. Now they were quickly sailing east towards the coordinates Roan had found.

"Ok, we're about as close as we can get without being seen. I guess you'll have to swim from here on out."

"You sure you don't want me to come along?" Agent Gunter asked. She'd been carefully avoiding Steve since he'd returned, and clearly didn't seem anxious to be trapped in the middle of the ocean with him.

Roan shook his head, almost causing the mask to fall off. "No, it will be easier to stay out of sight if there's just one of us. And Agent Beckman will help when I find her."

"Try not to get the sensor too wet," Steve commented, and as he handed Agent Gunter a set of binoculars. "I'm not sure how waterproof it is."

Roan gave the thumbs-up sign and dove into the water.

* * *

><p>It was a long swim. They'd needed to stop the boat far enough from the coordinates to remain out of sight, so Roan needed to cover a lot of distance to reach his destination. He was a good swimmer, though, so he made good time.<p>

"Ok, now make a slight right turn," Roan heard Bartowski's voice in his ear. Along with the Klebichok sensor, Bartowski had given him an earpiece so that the directions to the coordinates could be communicated to him. That was immediately followed by, "Are you going to talk to me at all?" Because the line of communication was one-way only, Roan found the question ridiculous, until he realized it wasn't meant for him.

Agent Gunter must have been standing far away from the communicator, because her response was muffled. Roan was fine with that. Listening to people bicker wasn't exactly entertainment as far as he was concerned.

"Look, I believe what I believe, and I won't apologize for that," he couldn't avoid hearing Steve say in response. "I just can't trust that any government, including ours, will always do the right thing. I can't, and I won't change that."

Another response from Mary gave Roan a short respite. "No, I get that. But it doesn't matter anyway. Because I do trust you, Mary. I know that you believe in what's right. It's why I'm here, alongside you. I'm not here for them, I'm here for you."

Roan still couldn't hear Agent Gunter's words, but they seemed somewhat softer than before.

"A few days has been more than enough," Bartowski said. "In those days I've seen what you are capable of, how amazing you are. If you don't believe that, then I wish you could see me through my eyes."

Roan was so busy rolling his own eyes, he nearly swam into a school of tuna. He continued swimming as Mary spoke, once again inaudible to him, but then heard Steve speak again. "It's true. And I know that this is probably breaking some sort of rule, and I do realize that I'm nothing but some goofy tech guy and that someone like you could never look at a guy like me and…mmph!"

Roan was grateful to the sound of the lips smacking together, both because it meant he didn't have to hear any more talking, and that he wasn't there to see it. But the kiss apparently only lasted for a few seconds, and Bartowski started talking again.

"Wow! I mean…Wow. I almost feel like that woman you took down at Lazenby's. Roan told me all about…Oh, God. Agent Montgomery!"

"Nice of you to remember me," Roan said drily into his mask, knowing nobody could hear him.

"Ok, Agent Montgomery, you need to veer right, about 60 degrees. You shouldn't be far now."

Roan did so, and continued to swim. A moment later, Bartowski's voice crackled into his ear again. "Another couple of hundred yards and you should be at the coordinates."

At first, Roan looked up to see if there was a boat in sight. Seeing nothing, he looked down and saw that the ocean bottom rapidly rising. He was nearing shore.

Romanova wasn't in a boat. He was on an island.

* * *

><p>Once he'd gotten a bit closer to the shore, Roan snuck his head above water. Through his mask, he could see a single sentry standing a few feet from the water. He was looking to the right rather than towards to the water, so Roan was temporarily safe. But, he'd clearly have to find shore elsewhere. He swam east for a couple of minutes, and checked again. This time, the beach was free.<p>

He rode the waves ashore, and found a secluded spot to stow his gear. He removed his wetsuit, leaving him in only a pair of swimming trunks. He pocketed the sensor and headed into the island.

The sandy ground eventually shifted to a darker soil. Before long, Roan found himself pushing his way through thick vegetation. The brambles were decidedly uncomfortable, but Roan couldn't complain. It meant that nobody passed this way, so he wouldn't need to worry about meeting anybody.

When he finally reached a clearing, Roan paused to find his bearings. There was a small hut ahead, along with two guards standing outside. He waited for one to leave, most likely on rounds, and then quietly moved forward.

The guard didn't notice Roan until he was almost next to him. Roan covered the man's mouth, and injected him with the syringe. He wasn't too keen on leaving the man alive, but Bartowski had insisted the man would be out cold for 24 hours. That was long enough for him to stay out of Roan's way, and he needed the man's uniform unbloodied. He took the man's automatic weapon, and put on his clothes. The guard was smaller than Roan, and the shirt didn't button all the way up. Still, it would have to do, so he continued on.

Roan moved slowly and deliberately, making sure he remained out of sight. As he moved further into the island, he soon found himself once again surrounded by jungle growth. This time the vegetation cleared pretty quickly, though, and he soon was approaching another small building, with another much larger building looming over it.

Judging by the blue water sparkling just past the smaller building, Roan guessed that he had arrived at a pool house. He poked his head past the side, and saw that he was correct. A single figure could be seen lying head down on a pool chair at the other end of the water. A single, bikini-clad figure.

Roan didn't see anyone else nearby, but he still didn't want to walk into plain sight. Looking around, he found a small rock lying on the ground. He picked it up, and tossed it into the pool.

The woman didn't look up, so Roan tried again with a second, larger rock. This time, his signal had the intended effect, and the head of Agent Beckman darted upward. Seeing Roan at the other end of the pool, she nodded, stood up and grabbed a dressing gown. Though it seemed to Roan that she lingered a moment before putting on the gown. Roan also noticed that she took an interest in his unbuttoned shirt. "Your disguise is a bit tight," she commented once she was standing next to him.

"So's yours."

Diane shrugged. "Keeping up appearances."

"Well, there's nothing wrong with your appearance, trust me." Agent Beckman was a bit shorter than Roan's usual taste, but her self-confidence, as well as the high heels she was wearing, made her seem much taller. And the bikini, this time a red one, didn't hurt either. "Don't you want the guards around here to not pay attention to you?"

"They pay attention. Just not to what I'm doing. And they're under strict no-touch orders from Romanova, which comes in handy." Agent Beckman turned her head slightly, and Roan could see a small earbud in her ear, similar to the one Bartowski had given him. She then pointed to the towel draped over the chair she'd been reclining in. "There's a tape player over there. I've got all of today's meeting recorded."

Roan frowned. "Then the Soviet emissary, he's gone?" And the Klebichok agent with him, no doubt.

Beckman nodded. "About an hour ago. But it doesn't seem like your weapon was the topic of conversation. Mostly reminiscing about old days, some vague discussion of future business enterprises. They did mention your London meeting, though. Something about a capitalist pig assassinating their representative. I take it you're the pig in question?"

Roan bowed ironically. "At your service. Though I wasn't responsible for that particular act, which I think Romanova is well aware of. But I wouldn't be too sure about what you heard. Couldn't they have been talking in code?"

"Maybe," Agent Beckman admitted. "Still, I saw the Russian leave, and he wasn't carrying anything. He didn't come with a suitcase full of money either, and Romanova isn't one to give things out for free, love for Mother Russia notwithstanding."

That was good, then. He could complete his mission after all, as long as he could find the Klebichok agent. And as long as Romanova wasn't around. "So where exactly is your boyfriend?"

"Shark hunting." Seeing the look on Roan's face, she added, "Don't be impressed. He stays on the boat and shoots them with miniature torpedoes. But it keeps him busy, and out of my hair."

"Great, so how do we get in?"

"Through here." Roan followed Diane into the pool house. Trying to ignore the various selections of swimwear lying around, he watched the young agent head into the changing room. A moment later, Agent Beckman stuck her head back through the door. "Come on!"

Roan smiled, and headed into the room. "Well, we really should focus on retrieving the Klebichok agent first, but I won't object to a momentary distraction."

Beckman had just finished pulling on a shirt and her robe, and gave him a withering look. "This is our way in. Nobody else comes in here, on the boss's orders. Which is good, because it's a handy back way into the house. She walked over to a shower stall, and pulled up a large metal grate with little effort. Without any hesitation, she then climbed down inside.

"We're going down there?"

"That a problem? Don't tell me underneath that bravado you're afraid of the dark?"

"Hardly. But if you'd like me to stay close to you, I'll be happy to oblige."

"Just get down here," Agent Beckman's voice echoed from down below.

* * *

><p>When Roan had finished climbing down, he found himself in a nine-by-nine foot empty room. "I think the original occupants were drug runners," Agent Beckman explained. "So they built some oversized air ducts and this room as an easy hiding place. Romanova doesn't seem to know about it." There was another vent in one of the walls, which she climbed inside. "We have to go through here to get to the main building," she said, before disappearing again.<p>

The air shaft was a tight fit, and Roan had to struggle to work his way forward. The only light came from the small flashlight that Beckman was carrying a few feet ahead of him. He could just make out her backside as she dexterously pushed ahead.

"At least the view is nice," Roan remarked.

"Shhh," Diane whispered. "There might be some guards ahead, and it will be tough to explain why we're in here."

It was only a few minutes, but the time inside the air shaft felt like hours. Enclosed spaces ranked with non-alcoholic beer, sweaters and polka music among Roan's least favorite things in the world. But fortunately, while the progress was slow, it was steady, and soon Agent Beckman was moving aside another vent at the other end of the duct.

When his feet were once again firmly on the ground, Roan found himself in a small, dank hallway. "We're in the basement," Agent Beckman explained. "Romanova has firmly, but politely told me this part of the house is off-limits. So, it's the first place I explored when I got here."

"So, this would be the place the Klebichok agent would be." As Roan said this, he once again retrieved Bartowski's sensor. "If it's here, this will lead us to it," he explained.

There were three doors leading out of the hallway. Behind one was a stairwell leading up to the house's main level. The other two were more promising. "That one is Romanova's wine cellar," Beckman commented. When the light on the sensor didn't change, she added, "He's probably afraid your chemical weapon will turn the wine into vinegar."

Roan snorted and moved over to the other door. Still, the light stayed red. "You sure that thing works?" Beckman asked.

"It's the best I've got."

"Well, the walls here are thick. Let's open the door and look inside." Diane produced a ring of keys from her robe pocket. "Stole these from a guard when he was sleeping. Easy enough to make copies." She picked her way through the keys until one finally produced a barely audible click. "Bingo."

The room was small, and mostly empty. A desk stood at one side, the top mostly clear other than a white binder. Roan noticed an odd red figure on the cover, shaped slightly like a ghost. "SPIRITE," he said.

Agent Beckman nodded. "We should take that too. But where's your Klebichok weapon?"

The sensor remained red, but Roan scoured through the room anyway. There was some electronic equipment that he was sure Bartowski could explain if he was here. But it wasn't what he was looking for right now. Instead, he turned his attention to a large box standing at one end of the room. "Well this looks promising." The held the sensor next to it, and the light turned green.

"Careful," Beckman admonished. "Whatever is in there I'd rather you didn't drop it."

Roan knelt down and examined the box. He found a latch at one end, and slowly turned it. Once free, he pulled open the top.

The box was empty.

"I'm afraid you're too late," the voice from behind was thick and accented. "I'm sorry you went to all this trouble for nothing."

Roan slowly turned around to see the face of Alexis Romanova, his usually dead eyes dancing with amusement.

* * *

><p><em>February 6, 2011<em>_. __5:30 PM__, __Los Angeles__, __CA_

"Are you ever going to get that nose of yours out of that book?"

Chuck looked up to see Casey giving him a dark look from the driver's seat. "Well, I would like to read a couple more pages, if it's all the same to you." The light of the day was quickly disappearing, and he really wanted to know what was happening next. Even if they were about to meet the man who could tell him the entire story.

"You're just wasting time, Bartowski. Montgomery's in there. He'll tell us what we need to know."

Chuck looked out the window. The bar at the other end of the street was an LA hangout of Roan's, and apparently where he was spending the evening. Casey and Sarah had used their various contacts to find out that the older agent was currently in the US, though not for long. So if they wanted to find out about the Klebichok agent, they needed to talk to him now.

Once Chuck had considered this, he finally relented. "Alright, let's go. But I'd rather not spend too long in that place." Judging from the look of the bar, Roan's drinking buddies were either hardened criminals or rodents. He stepped out of the passenger seat, and they headed inside.

Sure enough, the man himself was inside, huddled down at the bar. From the white hair and slightly disheveled appearance, Chuck couldn't believe that this was the same man that he'd been reading about the last few days. Still, time takes no prisoners, he guessed, as he sat down on the barstool next to him. "Hey there, Roan."

After a moment, Roan looked up from his drink and fixed an unfocused eye on his new companion. "Charles?" he asked. Then looking behind him, "And if it isn't John Casey?" He turned back to Chuck. "But no Agent Walker. Don't tell me things didn't work out so well with you two?"

"They worked fine," Chuck said, somewhat defensively. "She's actually back in Burbank, keeping an eye on things." Sarah had agreed to stay at Castle in case the General contacted them with any news about the mission.

"So," Roan said, grabbing his martini. "To what do I owe this honor?"

"We were hoping you could tell us about one of your old cases," Chuck answered. "About a man named Alexis Romanova."

Roan looked at Chuck blankly.

Chuck tried again. "It was back in the late 1970s. There were these Klebichok agents…"

"Who's Klebichok? I don't remember anyone by that name."

Chuck could hear Casey stir restlessly behind him.

"No no. It's not a guy. They're chemical weapons."

There was still no sign of recognition in Roan. Chuck realized he would need to bring up something more memorable to the older man. "Cole Barker. You know him right?"

Finally, Roan nodded. "Cole, of course. Nice young man. I knew his mother." He took on a faraway look. "Lovely girl. Very beautiful, quite reserved until you got to know her." He smiled. "Quite the tiger in the sack. She had these…golden fingers, let's just say. Quite amazing."

"Ok!" Chuck interrupted, not needing any details. If he ever saw Cole again, he'd like to be able to look at him. "So you knew Lottie Banginton?"

Roan gave him an incredulous look. "Who?"

"You know, Cole's mother?"

"Cole Barker's mother was named Philippa. Lottie Banginton? What the hell kind of name is that? Charles, I think you've seen too many movies."

Casey chuckled for a moment at that, but then pushed Chuck aside, his face serious. "Look. We're looking for a man named Strannaya Deloski. You may have dealt with him in the past. Used to work for a man named Alexis Romanova. Wears a funny hat all the time?"

Roan returned to his martini, took a long sip, then took a bite out of the olive. Finally, he nodded. "I remember the man."

"Great!" Chuck said. "Do you know where we might find him? He's in LA."

"Before I answer," Roan said after taking another gulp of his drink, "does Di-General Beckman know I'm here?"

Chuck shook his head.

"Good. I'm only here for a couple of days, and I'd rather she not know that."

"Ok, no problem, but can you tell us where Deloski is?"

Roan shook his head.

Casey grunted in annoyance. "I knew this was a waste of time."

Roan put a hand on the big man's shoulder. "Hold on. I don't know exactly where your man is, but I think I can guess. I've run across him a few times, and if I ever had to find him he'd always be at the track. He always seemed to have a taste for the horses, and it was enough of a bad habit that I doubt he's ever shaken it. My guess is that's where you'll find him. Now, if you'll excuse me," Roan nodded towards a group of young women that had just entered the bar, "I have more pressing concerns."

Chuck nodded, figuring that Roan wasn't going to share any more. All of the young women were young enough to be his granddaughter and would probably reject him quickly, but that wasn't going to put him in a sharing mood. He nodded to Casey, and they headed out.

"Don't forget," Chuck heard Roan say, "don't tell your General that I'm here."

Chuck turned around to see Roan had quickly ingratiated himself with the women. None seemed to want him to leave.

Once they were back in the car, Casey commented, "He's one of the reasons I'm glad I'm not in the CIA."

"Well, he gave us something."

"Not much. I wouldn't put any stock in anything he said. The man was pickled like an egg."

Chuck hoped Casey was right. In part because it meant that they might be able to find Deloski, but also because of what he'd said about the information his father had given him. If everything he'd written was wrong, then what was the point of it all? Did his father's last message even mean anything? He decided he would have to do some research once they were back home. It would be easy enough to find out Cole's mother's name; that would at least give him an idea of whether he could believe any of what he'd read.

Despite his newfound doubt, Chuck reopened his father's notebook as soon as they were back on the road. Even if none of it could be trusted, he still wanted to get to the end.

_Yup, I know my record for getting new chapters up is getting worse and worse, and I apologize. This time my excuse is a busy time at work. But things have cleared up a bit, and we're pretty close to the end. So thanks to everyone who's still sticking with the story. Just think of him as an allegory for you, the reader. Or not._

_As always, feel free to rant and tell me what a poor job I've been doing. As long as you do it in review form. Complaining about this story to passers-by on the street probably won't do either of us any favors. _


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16. You Know that Scene where the Bad Guy Rattles off his Entire Plan?**

_February 24, 1977, 3:30 PM, off the coast of Jamaica._

The wind blew a continual spray of ocean water on Roan's face, leaving the unwanted taste of salt in his mouth. At the moment, there wasn't much he could do about it. His hands were tied securely behind his back. He also was tethered to another person.

"Can you get free?" he whispered.

"No," Agent Beckman replied. "I would have guessed that you're the type of person that likes being tied up," she added.

"I may take you up on that offer later, but now's probably not the best time." Roan looked up at the two armed guards watching over them. Even if they could run, they'd have to get past them. And then where could they go? They'd been on the boat for about a half-hour, and were far away from shore.

"An interesting gadget." Roan struggled to crane his neck, and saw Romanova emerge with two others, including Fez. The Soviet agent was holding the Klebichok sensor in his hand. "I suppose this is supposed to tell you if my little weapon is around." Roan noticed that the light on the sensor was red again. The agent wasn't on board. "Oh well, it looks like you two came all this way for nothing."

Romanova turned off the sensor and deposited it in a pocket, then studied the two CIA agents. "I trust you two are comfortable."

"Your hospitality inspires, Romanova," Roan replied.

Romanova smiled briefly. "Agent Roan Montgomery. More dogged than I would have guessed. From what I've heard about you, you're little more than a man-child chasing skirts all day."

"That sounds pretty accurate," Roan heard Diane comment. She then spoke louder, and in a voice about an octave lower than usual. "Alexis, there must be some mistake. Surely you don't think I would do anything to hurt you. Not after everything we've had together."

"Ah, Agent Beckman, still playing make-believe." Romanova's smile was more shark-like now. "Did you really think you could fool me?" He walked up to them and put a hand on Beckman's cheek. "Of course I knew who you were. Right from the start. But you were so much fun, why spoil things?"

Roan could feel Beckman shudder behind him.

"And besides, you were a big help to me. To us."

"You mean SPIRITE?"

"You really are clever, Agent Montgomery, not that it's done you any good. Yes, SPIRITE. And yes, Agent Beckman, you were so helpful. Delivering my message just at the right time."

Roan's eyes narrowed. "Then you wanted us to know about your meeting with the Soviet emissary."

Romanova smirked. "That's right."

Roan thought for a moment. "Then this wasn't actually about money, was it? You never planned to sell the Klebichok agent to them. Or to us."

Romanova shrugged. "Money is easy. Anyone can get money. What we are after is something greater."

"Worldwide panic?"

"Something much greater than that." He gave the two CIA agents a speculative look, before saying, "I suppose there's no harm in telling you two. You won't be sharing it with anyone. Panic is only part of our goals."

"Yours?" Roan asked. "As in your new friends at SPIRITE?"

"Ah, but my _friends_ appreciate the realities of this world. Something you Americans, and my former comrades, seem to have lost. We understand human nature. You can disguise it in whatever soft, peace-loving, do-unto-others foolishness you want, but in the end, people respond to one thing. Might. And if that might is no longer to be owned by countries, than it's time somebody else took their place."

"So I'm guessing you weren't too thrilled about those peace negotiations."

Romanova chuckled. "There was never going to be any real peace negotiations. We made sure of that."

"By killing anyone working towards them?"

"Warner was never a serious threat to us, but we needed his death to create dissent."

"And Amasova?"

Romanova made a face. "It's people like him that are destroying the Soviet Union. He honestly believed that some hand-shaking and vague promises would save the world. A fool," he spat. "Fortunately, his death was just the catalyst we needed."

"And you got lucky that the US changed its tune about the negotiations so quickly."Seeing Romanova's expression, Roan shook his head. "But you weren't lucky, were you? Senator Felix, he's one of yours?"

"His interests line up with ours," Romanova replied.

From what Roan had seen, Felix's interests mainly focused on his own career. "I should have guessed. At first, he as so concerned with keeping the negotiations alive he refused to investigate Warner's death. And then when the Soviets started casting blame over Amasova, he runs back to Washington and starts fanning the flames of anti-Soviet feeling. Bringing us to the brink of war. But then what?" He quickly realized the answer, when he remembered the meeting the Director had left to attend. "The Klebichok agent. He has it. And he's going to use it."

"Your current administration is about to suffer some casualties. As will the Kremlin, when they convene their own meeting. I still have a friend or two there, ready at my command."

"So this world you want, created with two terrorist acts. Then what, SPIRITE swoops down to take over?"

"While it may not be our flag flying over your White House, we will be the ones controlling everything. It will be a new world, one of our own devising."

"Pretty clever."

"Too bad there's nothing you can do about it." Romanova nodded, and two of his men grabbed the two CIA agents. They separated the bonds tying the two of them together, but left their wrists tightly bound.

"You know," Romanova said as he watched, "I've always been fascinated of the stories of your pirates, sailing around these waters, taking what they want. They were so dramatic – making their enemies 'walk the plank.' Well, I think I'll take a page out of their playbook."

The two men dragged Roan and Diane to the side of the boat.

"I should warn you, these waters are what you call shark-infested. But the good news is that sharks have poor eyesight. They could swim right by you without even knowing it. Their sense of smell, however, is another story. But you should fine as long as they don't smell blood."

One of Romanova's men produced a knife, and sliced into Roan's and Beckman's wrists, leaving droplets of blood on their arms.

"Oops. Well, maybe they won't be hungry today." He flashed another smirk. "Happy swimming."

* * *

><p>True to his word, Romanova actually did have a plank set up, leading off the starboard bow of the boat. The two SPIRITE agents pushed Roan and Diane towards the very edge of the boat. Just before Roan's foot was about to hit the plank, he turned to Beckman and nodded. Then he swiveled his head back and addressed the two enemy soldiers.<p>

"I hope you realize that thing your boss took from me isn't what he thinks it is."

The first agent snorted, and his grip on Beckman didn't waver. The second agent did look curious, though, as he pushed Roan on to the plank. This was his chance.

"It's a bomb, you know, and he just set it. It's going to go off in about five minutes."

The guard was just unsure enough of himself to turn to look back at where Romanova was standing. Roan stomped on the edge of the plank, causing it to fly into the air, hitting the man on the head. Beckman then took the opportunity of the momentary distaction to barrel into the first guard. Despite her smaller size, she moved with enough force to push the man back. Roan then put his knee up, knocking the man overboard.

Roan briefly looked over the side of the boat to see the resulting carnage. "I guess these waters really are shark-infested," he commented.

A moment later, a small projectile passed just over his head. He looked up to see Fez standing on the top deck of the boat, reloading his weapon. "Is that a harpoon?" he asked.

The silent assassin merely grinned in reply.

"C'mon," Diane motioned for him to follow. He hurried behind her as she led them below deck and up to a small door. It took some momentary fumbling to turn the knob, thanks to their bound wrists, but finally they were inside.

The room appeared to be some sort of small office. At first, Roan thought Beckman had led him there to find a place to hide. Those seemed to be in short supply in the room, however, and he could already hear footsteps approaching. Instead, Diane had run to the far wall, which was decorated with several mounted trophies. He finally understood when he saw that one of Romanova's former victories was over a swordfish.

Once the female agent had freed herself, Roan took her place and rubbed his bounds against the trophy's snout until they broke. They left the room and headed towards the stairs. Unfortunately, Fez was standing at the top, waiting for them.

"I don't suppose I could convince you to switch sides?" Roan asked. Fez merely shook his head, and aimed the harpoon gun at them.

Just as the mute SPIRITE agent was inching his finger onto the trigger, an intense booming sound echoed overhead. The boat began to shake, and Fez momentarily lost his footing. Roan charged into him, knocking the harpoon out of his hand. His fist connected to the larger man's face, rocking at back. Diane hurried past the two of them, and grabbed the harpoon gun. The boat rocked a second time, and Roan used the momentum to knock Fez down the stairs, until he landed on his head, out cold.

Once they were back in open air, Roan could see the source of the rumblings. Two fighter planes were blazing through the air. "Are those ours?" Beckman asked.

"I think so. I guess they've decided there are no chemical weapons to set off in here." And they didn't seem too worried about either of them, he thought, as the planes turned around, preparing to fire on the boat again.

It was gunfire from on the boat, though, that immediately got their attention. Two of Romanova's men were ascending on them. "I'll take care of them!" Diane shouted. "You find Romanova."

Roan was going to ask how she planned to do that, but then saw that she had found a gun in the office. He ducked down, and headed over to the side of the boat. The planes fired again, narrowly missing the main deck. Roan steadied himself, and looked around to see if he could find the Russian.

Just as Roan was turning a corner, a large hand grabbed him from behind and threw him to the ground. "How many crew members are on this thing?" he mumbled as he eyed the giant standing over him.

The harpoon gun had skittered away when Roan had fallen. Clearly, the odds were against him in hand-to-hand combat. This only became clearer when the larger man grabbed him again, and threw him back on the ground. "I'm beginning to see what they mean by 'hit the deck.'" Roan commented.

This time, he looked to his side and noticed a leftover screwdriver. SPIRITE agents didn't make for the neatest of deckhands, apparently. As the giant reached over to grab him, Roan grabbed the screwdriver and plunged it into the other's meaty shoulder.

The large man barely seemed to wince. He tugged the screwdriver out of his arm and tossed it overboard. But Roan took advantage of his momentarily diverted attention. Seeing a holster at the man's side, he reached over and tried to free the gun. His giant adversary grabbed his neck and began choking him. Roan's vision began to get dark, but he kept trying to grab the firearm. Finally, it was freed and he fired.

Roan massaged his neck for a moment as he took in large gulps of air. He could hear gunfire behind him, but chose not to see how Beckman was doing. She could take care of herself. He needed to find Romanova.

He stepped over the dead SPIRITE agent's body and ran down the deck, steeling himself as the planes flew over yet again. Just as the engine roar faded, he heard a click behind his ear, followed by the feel of steel on his temple.

"I'll take that gun, Agent Montgomery." Roan handed it over to Romanova.

"It's too late, you know," the Russian said. "The Klebichok is already in Washington, and pretty soon your President, Vice President, and Military leaders will all be coming down with a not-so-common cold. SPIRITE's victory is guaranteed. There's nothing you can do."

Roan noticed a small watercraft attached to the boat by a metal chain. "I see you're leaving," he commented. "There room for two on that?"

"A single-seater, I'm afraid. There seems to be little point in my staying. Though I will miss this boat." Through the corner of his eye, he saw Romanova smirk. "Because I have such little faith in your military, I've decided to help them. I have several bombs scattered around here, all set to go off in five minutes. It should give me just enough time to disappear in my little submersible here, and just enough time for you to come to terms with your short, failed life."

Romanova backed towards a winch and turned it, leaving his gun on Roan the entire time. "Goodbye, Mr. Montgomery."

Just as the SPIRITE agent was entering the sub, Roan noticed something out of the corner of his eye. It was the harpoon gun he'd lost in the fight with the giant. He stood still, closely watching Romanova's every move. Finally, the man opened the hatch to the sub and Roan had his chance.

He dove to the ground, and scrambled for the harpoon gun. Romanova saw what the CIA Agent was doing and fired a couple of shots at him with his gun. After the narrow misses, Roan reached the harpoon and fired a single missile.

Roan didn't have time to carefully aim, so the harpoon only hit Romanova in the leg. But that was enough. The SPIRITE agent lost his footing and fell into the water. Several sharks, already in the area because of the bloody screwdriver, quickly descended on the bleeding Russian. Roan watched for a moment, then headed off to find Beckman.

The CIA agent was still in the middle of the boat, looking down at the two SPIRITE agents she'd just killed. "Where's Romanova?" she asked when she saw Roan approach.

"Oh, he's hanging around with some chum." Without letting Diane respond to that, he added, "We need to get out of here now. This place is going to explode in less than five minutes!"

Roan led Agent Beckman back towards the side of the boat. Romanova wasn't going to need the submersible any more, so they had an available escape route. Or so he thought. Just as they were nearing the sub, a stray shot from one of the planes hit the side of the boat, and he watched their only means of getting away sink.

"Can we defuse the bombs?" Diane yelled.

"Too many of them! We're going to have to figure something else out!"

"Ahoy!"

Roan turned to see Steve waving towards them, the small speedboat just approaching. He was waving a small US flag. This seemed to catch the attention of the pilots, and the planes scattered.

Roan turned to Agent Beckman. "I guess that's our ride."

* * *

><p>"How'd you know we were here?" Roan asked once they'd all crowded together on the small boat.<p>

"Well, there were a couple of things I didn't mention about the sensor," Steve explained apologetically. "For one, it's got a homing beacon, so I could tell exactly where you were at all times. It also has a small microphone, so I could hear everything until it was turned off." He paused to scratch his head, and then turned the boat towards shore. "That Romanova guy sure liked to talk a lot."

"Yeah, he was a sharer." A loud boom echoed from behind, and everyone quickly turned to look back. Romanova hadn't been bluffing; the place really had been filled with explosives. Roan almost felt bad. It _was_ a nice boat.

"So you must have heard Romanova say that the Klebichok wasn't on the boat," Roan said after a while. "And alerted the CIA."

"Yeah," Steve looked down. "I told the Director you were there. I guess he figured getting rid of Romanova was more important."

"Collateral damage," Diane said drily. Ever since embarking on the speedboat, she had remained quiet and watchful, and neither of the other passengers had spoken with her. Bartowski had avoided her gaze, probably because she still was wearing just a shirt and bikini bottoms. Mary had been studying her carefully, as if sizing up competition.

"Well, the bad guy's gone anyway, so everything turned out ok," Steve spoke up, his voice eager. "So a win for us."

"Not exactly," Mary replied. "The Klebichok is still out there somewhere, and we don't know where."

Actually, they did, Roan thought to himself. Romanova had turned off the sensor before Gunter and Bartowski had heard his entire plan, so they didn't know the entire plan. "You think we can hitch a ride with one of those planes?" he asked.

"I can contact them and ask. Why, where do we want to go?"

"To Washington."

* * *

><p><em>February 6, 2011. 9:00 PM, Los Alamitos, CA<em>

"The rabbit has left the garden."

Chuck tried to fight off a smirk, but failed. He could practically hear Casey's eyes roll through the radio. The NSA Agent had been anything but thrilled at having to pair up with Morgan. Clearly, he was still annoyed at having seen him with Alex the other day. But there were a lot of racetracks in the greater LA area, and there were only so many available agents to watch over them. And Casey had grudgingly admitted that if Morgan had to be part of the mission, he would need close supervision.

"We're on our way," Sarah said from the driver's seat of the Porsche. They'd been to two different race tracks themselves, and Chuck wondered if he'd ever be able to scrub off the scent of cigarettes and stale popcorn. Fortunately, Casey and Morgan had better luck, and had spotted Deloski quickly.

"Would you hurry up?" Casey's voice crackled through the radio.

"But what about my winnings?" Morgan's voice asked.

"I told you we didn't have time to place any bets!"

"Hey, as soon as I saw there was a horse named Encino Royale, I knew it was fate. You can't fight fate, John."

"_You_ can't fight, period. You might want to remember that, and listen to what I say. My daughter isn't always going to be there to protect you."

"Um, guys," Chuck interrupted. "Maybe you could tell us what to look for?" They were nearing the track, and he had no idea what kind of car Deloski was driving.

"Sorry," two voices said in unison.

"Hold on, there he is. He's getting into a white Toyota." Casey grunted. "Leave it to a Russkie to not appreciate American engineering. Ok, he's heading towards the 405."

Sarah maneuvered her way onto the highway, and soon Chuck saw Deloski. While the sedan wasn't particularly noticeable, the fez perched atop the head of the driver was.

After they'd been following the ex-SPIRITE agent for a few miles, Chuck glanced longingly over at the notebook on his lap. "We don't really have time now, Chuck," Sarah said, sensing his intentions.

"I know, but I'm almost finished," Chuck protested.

"I thought you said that most of it isn't true anyway."

"I'm still curious." For one thing, he wouldn't mind knowing how Deloski had escaped from the exploding boat. Assuming there ever had been an explosion, or a boat. Still, he was almost there and it seemed a shame to stop now.

"You can finish it when you're done," Sarah said. "But first we really need Deloski to lead us to this chemical weapon."

"Guys, we're right behind you now," Morgan's voice came through the radio. "Is the rabbit still running?"

"Nothing," Chuck replied. "Wait, I think he's turning off now."

Deloski's car veered off the highway, and into the nearest town. Sarah made sure to stay a few car lengths behind. A Porsche was a memorable sight, even in southern California. Finally, the Toyota turned into an empty parking lot by an old warehouse.

The four agents parked half a block away, and quietly headed over to Deloski's hide out. Chuck and Sarah headed to the rear, while Casey and Morgan stayed near the front entrance.

They looked around the deserted warehouse. If there were any sentries, they were sleeping on the job. Still, the place wasn't exactly hospitable, and it took them a few minutes to find a back entrance – an open window.

"You ready?" Sarah whispered.

"Oh sure. Another day, another deadly weapon capable of taking out an entire city."

"Alright, let's go."

* * *

><p><em>Ahh, cheesy, cliched bad-guy dialogue. Is there anything more fun to write? Well, maybe self-indulgent author notes. Check, and Check.<em>

_We're just about at the end. One more chapter, or possibly one chapter and an epilogue. Plus, I've decided to let said self-indulgent run rampant, and do a list of all of the Bond references I've managed to shove into this thing. I may put all of them into a single post - either way, I figure I should get all this done before the actual season starts._

_And again, thanks to everyone still reading this, and as always, reviews are valued!_


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17. Defusing a Tense Situation**

_February 24, 1977, 9:30 PM, the White House_

Senator James Felix watched the motorcade pull up Pennsylvania Avenue. The line of black vans and limousines was impressive but expected, given that this was an important meeting with many attendees. One that required the presence of Senators and Congressmen from both Parties, the Joint Chiefs, the Cabinet, and the Vice President. All of them here to meet the President at the White House for this emergency, late night summit. It was about national security, after all.

Which it was, of course. Just not in the way that they thought. Due to the top-secret nature of the meeting, most of the White House staff had been asked to clear away, giving the ability to move about without hindrance to those in attendance. Which gave Felix the perfect opportunity to plant the Agent, and set the timer to program the release of the gas. The timer wouldn't go off until 10:15, to make sure any late-comers would be assembled and ready to meet their doom. He'd have to be sure to excuse himself just before, of course. It would be foolish of him to let SPIRITE down by being among the casualties. Not when they had such big plans for him.

He glanced at his watch. There was still a good half hour until the meeting would start. And there was nothing left for him to do; every part of the plan had been checked and re-checked. If there was one thing that SPIRITE believed in, it was the importance of quality control in hatching world domination plans.

Actually, there was one thing left, Felix thought to himself with a smile. He'd been asked to brief the President in the Oval Office just before the meeting began. The Senator made his way down the hall though the usually off-limits part of the White House. He waved at the guards standing outside, who nodded in recognition. They were among the unfortunate few that would be in the building when the Agent was released, but he couldn't very well tell them that.

A moment later he greeted the President's secretary. "Senator, he's waiting for you," she said in response. He actually felt bad out her remaining in the building. He had always liked her; she'd been quite friendly the few times he'd attended meetings there. But what was done was done, and it was hardly the time for sentiment. Another guard opened the door to the Oval Office and he entered.

The President's chair was faced away from the door, so Felix decided to look around the room while he had the chance. It was impressive to be sure, but the décor would require some work. After all, if he was going to be spending so much time here, he would need to feel comfortable.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "You sent for me, Mr. President?"

"I trust you've finished taking the measurements, Senator," responded a voice clearly lacking in Georgia twang. "But I wouldn't make too many remodeling plans just yet." The chair turned, revealing Agent Roan Montgomery, a gun in hand pointed at Felix.

The Senator turned around to see that the three guards had entered the room behind him, and were also armed and ready.

"Sorry to spoil everything," Montgomery said. "But the meeting has been postponed. So I'm afraid you're just going to have to tell me where the Agent is."

Senator Felix glanced around the room. In addition to Montgomery and the guards, a female agent had appeared in the room. From the description he'd remembered hearing, he guessed that this was the Agent Beckman who had been keeping watch on Romanova. He could see why the Russian had humored her for so long. Unfortunately, she was as armed as everyone else. Other than him. He was trapped, and had no chance of escape. He gave the office one last wistful glance, knowing what he had to do.

"That's not really an option, I'm afraid." He reached into his pocket, wincing slightly at the sound of cocked firearms that movement produced. He stared at the pill he removed for a moment, then plopped it into his mouth.

* * *

><p><em>February 24, 1977, 10:00 PM, the White House<em>

"Well that's going to be a problem," Roan commented as he looked at the dead body on the floor. Senator Felix had gone into convulsions a few seconds after swallowing the pill, and had stopped breathing about a minute later. "I guess his fear of what would happen if he talked trumped his own ambition."

"SPIRITE must be pretty far-reaching," Agent Beckman commented. "He must have known he wouldn't have lived long if he did talk. But that leaves us with a big problem. How do we find the Klebichok?"

"I guess we'll have to resort to Plan B." Roan looked around the office for a phone. After fighting off the brief temptation to grab the red one on the desk, he found a second one on the wall and quickly dialed out. "Send them in," he said, then hung up.

Roan quickly left the office, followed by Agent Beckman. Once they'd reached the front entrance, they found Bartowski and Agent Gunter waiting for them. "You have it?" Roan asked.

"Yeah," Bartowski waved the sensor in his hand. "Amazing how quick they can ship things when it's a national emergency."

"Well, it's a good thing you had another one."

"I always pilot test my projects," Bartowski explained. "Not sure this one works as well as the other, but I guess we couldn't very well find the shark that ate the first one."

It would be the one with Romanova on its breath, Roan thought, but they hadn't exactly had time to sniff shark snouts.

"We need to hurry and start searching," Agent Beckman said, all business. "We don't know when the Agent is going to be released. Or where it will come from."

"Well, I've been thinking about that," Agent Gunter announced. "We know that when released, the Agent would have to still be at full strength when it reaches the conference room. That should narrow down our search perimeter. We don't know how lethal this Agent is, but we know that Felix wouldn't want to risk it dissipating without taking out his targets."

"That makes sense."

"So, I managed to get a hold of the White House schematics," Mary pulled out a folded-up parchment out from her pants pocket.

"How'd you get that?" Bartowski asked her.

"I have my sources," Mary replied coyly.

Roan tried to ignore the admiring look the techie was giving Agent Gunter, and looked over at the floor plan. "From what I can see," Mary stated, "there are four prime candidates." She ticked each one off on the map, and Roan could see that they all seemed to have access to the air vent Felix would have been targeting.

"Then we check each one," Roan stated.

"Not much point to splitting up," Bartowski added. "We'll need the sensor, since we don't know exactly what Felix hid the Agent in. It's probably attached to a timer, but the whole thing could be hidden out of plain sight."

They moved as quickly as they could through the building. The sensor barely registered a blip in the first three rooms, until they finally hit their last destination – the Lincoln Bedroom. "Pretty nice," Roan commented when they entered.

"Nothing so far," Bartowski said, staring at the sensor. He moved around the room, opening drawers and closets as he searched. "I hope they don't mind us making a mess," he commented.

"I'd rather be messy than dead," Agent Beckman replied. "We can clean up after we find this thing."

"Yeah, I guess – hold on! It's found something." Bartowski ducked under the bed, and looked underneath. "Yup, I think it's down here."

"Can you bring it out?"

"Um, I'd rather not." Bartowski peeked back up at Roan. "I slip up, and we're all in big trouble."

"Actually, I think we already are," Beckman said, after she'd taken a look herself. "You're right about the box is attached to a timer. Five minutes, counting down."

"That's not enough time to clear the building," Agent Gunter said. "We're going to have to do something." She turned to Bartowski. "You're going to have to disarm it. You're the only one who knows how."

Roan glanced over to Agent Beckman. "Help me push this bed over." She looked uncertain, but finally relented. They each grabbed a side of the bed and moved it up on its end. It was an antique four-poster bed, probably extremely valuable. Any new nicks on the frame could now be part of a great story for future commanders-in-chief, he guessed. Or part of a really sad story, if Bartowski couldn't do his thing.

The techie was already kneeling down, studying what had been beneath the bed. The timer looked like an old alarm clock, with the second hand ticking steadily. The timer was attached to an ornately-carved wooden box, about one foot long and eight inches wide, with the lid partially open. Inside the box, Roan could see several gears, connected by two thin metal rods. One rod connected to the timer, while the other connected to the lid of a small vial at the bottom of the box. Roan had no doubt that the vial contained the Klebichok agent.

"Can you disarm this?" Agent Beckman asked Bartowski, though the doubt registered clearly in her voice.

"I don't know," Steve admitted, his voice somewhat shaky. "It would seem like the easiest solution would be to stick something in the gears to get them to stop moving. But there may be a failsafe so I don't want to try that unless I'm sure it's not going to trigger anything." He quietly studied the box for a moment, before looking up at Agent Gunter. "We should try to get as many people out of the building as possible. You should go."

"I'm not going to desert you now," Mary protested. "You may need my help!"

Bartowski shook his head. "No, please go. I'm not going to be able to…concentrate if I don't know you're safe."

Roan nodded to Mary and she relented. Once she'd disappeared, Steve said, "Now, I need a way of seeing behind these gears." He looked up at Agent Beckman. "Do you have a compact?"

Diane nodded and removed a small mirror from her purse. Steve handed it to Roan, who held it up and away from the box. Then he leaned in, staring down at the box. "Yup. I see it. Another small wire down there. Crafty. I'll have to see if I can get it out." He took a pair of tweezers, and slowly worked his way down.

"You know," Steve said, keeping his eye on the tweezers. "You guys do some really exciting stuff, and it's been a lot of fun getting to tag along. But the stress, the always looking over your shoulder, the doubt about who to trust and who not to. I've been working with you for a few days, and I can barely take it. I think I'll stick to freelancing."

At the moment, Bartowski's future plans were the least of Roan's interests, though he supposed it was comforting at the moment to know that he had some. Still, the minute hand on the timer had inched closer to the twelve, meaning they were down to barely more than a minute.

"It's no wonder you all are so dependent on the booze, and the philandering." Steve snuck a brief glance up at Roan before returning to his work. "Seems like you need somebody to keep you grounded. Part of the real world. Without that, I think you'd lose yourself completely. I know I would."

"_Mister_ Bartowski!" Agent Beckman hissed. "Would you please focus on defusing that thing?" Roan glanced over at the timer again. The second hand continued to tick, and the minute hand was very close to the 12. They had only a few seconds left.

"You see what I mean?" Steve asked. "Stress. At least you should find some hobbies. Play golf, write poetry. Go to the movies. I hear there's a space movie coming out in a few months that's supposed to be pretty good. Ah, gotcha!" Steve removed the small red wire. He then grabbed a pen, and stuck it between the gears. "So. Now what?"

* * *

><p><em>February 24, 1977, 11:00 PM, the White House<em>

"Then they were able to hold the meeting?" Agent Gunter asked the Director. They were walking down a White House hallway, an hour after the Agent had been found and the timer disconnected.

"Yes, though the topic ended up being quite a bit different from what we'd planned."

"And what happened in Moscow?" Bartowski asked, a few steps behind the others.

The Director appeared to grimace slightly. "No fatalities. It seems that even though they weren't interested in listening to us, they listened to someone they saw as being a bit more neutral."

"They you did contact Hamilton in London," Agent Gunter said. "And he acted as an intermediary."

The Director nodded. "What became of the Klebichok that was going to be released there, and the SPIRITE agent who planned on releasing it, we don't know. We can only hope both were destroyed."

"And what of the Agent we just recovered ourselves?"

The Director turned a weary eye towards Bartowski. "It's safe. Agent Beckman retrieved it, and brought it to the proper authorities. I assure you, Mister Bartowski, we will keep it safe."

Steve seemed unsure about this, but he glanced up at Mary, who nodded.

"In any event," the Director said, "you both did fine work, and our President would like to thank you personally." The two Agents stopped walking when the Director did, and were shocked to find themselves face-to-face with the Commander-in-Chief waiting outside the Oval Office himself.

"Ah, so this must be some of our heroes," the President grinned, shaking their hands. "Great to meet you both. Why don't you come on in to the office." He turned to the Director. "I understand there were more of them."

"Yes, Agents Montgomery and Beckman," the Director replied as they reached the office door. "I'm sure they're around someplace, and would just love to- Oh my God!"

Roan looked up from the sofa, and grabbed a quilt to cover himself and Agent Beckman. The President just stood there, shocked. Finally, he said, softly, "That quilt was woven by Dolly Madison."

"Agent Montgomery," the Director said between clenched teeth. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Just a post mission debrief, sir."

The Director gritted his teeth and turned away.

"Well," the President said, "I suppose this isn't the first time something like this has happened in here. Probably won't be the last either. And I guess after a tough mission you gotta let off some steam. Still, I'd just as soon you two put some clothes on before Amy walks in and sees this."

Agent Beckman, looking a bit more embarrassed than Roan, gratefully took the clothes that Mary handed her, and quickly vanished into the bathroom, taking the quilt with her. Because that left Roan uncovered, the President looked back at the other two.

"I owe you folks a great debt of gratitude, for saving my life, and the lives of many others. If there is anything I can ever do, please feel free to ask."

Steve looked like he was about to speak, but Roan beat him to it. "Actually sir," he spoke up as he put on his shirt. "There is one thing. There was an MI-5 Agent, Banginton, who was killed while working with us."

"I see."

"If you could perhaps let the British Prime Minister know how valuable she was, I think it would be important to her family."

"Of course. Now, I'd love to talk with you good folks more, but I'm afraid I have a lot of work to do after the meeting, and I'm sure you are all exhausted. Some more than others," he said looking at Roan.

Once they had left the Oval Office, Steve turned to Mary. "Well, I guess you're no longer stuck with being my bodyguard."

Mary shrugged. "Wasn't all bad."

Bartowski smiled. "Well, the President was right about me being tired. But I'm also a bit hungry." He looked down shyly for a moment. "I don't suppose you'd care to accompany me for a late dinner?"

"To be honest, I could do with a snack myself. But is there anyplace open?"

"Actually, there's this little place in Chinatown I like. Serves the best sizzling shrimp." Steve offered his arm to Mary, and they headed off to the exit.

* * *

><p><em>February 6, 2011. 10:45 PM, Los Alamitos, CA<em>

Chuck blinked as the flash subsided. The two men now lying on the ground had leapt out from the shadows of the warehouse, triggering his automated defense mechanism. While he had been fighting them off, Sarah had gone on ahead in search of Deloski. Even if she hadn't found him, the ex-KGB agent must certainly know they were here now.

The area was dark, so Chuck could barely see around him. The warehouse was also quiet, which made him feel quite uncomfortable. It could mean that Sarah had already taken care of Deloski. Or it could be the other way around.

He got the answer to his question when he nearly tripped over a prone figure on the ground. "Sarah!" he said as he dropped to the floor.

"Don't move!" a harsh voice said behind him.

Chuck looked behind him and held his hands over his head. Deloski was standing over him, pointing a gun at his chest. Despite the imminent danger of the situation, one thought jumped to the Chuck's mind. "You talk?" he blurted out.

The Russian blinked. "Of course I can. Why would you think I can't talk?" His voice was deep, but barely accented.

Another thing his father's notebook had wrong, Chuck thought to himself. At least he had the fez part right. "We've come for the Klebichok agent," he said.

"Then you should have brought cash."

Out of the corner of his eye, Chuck saw Sarah begin to stir. Deloski had his back turned to her, and didn't see any of this. Chuck decided he would have to stall. "You'll never get away with this," he said.

Deloski shook his head. "Never say never."

"Even if you get away from here," Chuck said, stalling further. "There's no way you can sell that weapon. The CIA is tracking your every move, and we're never going to let it out of our sight."

Deloski chuckled. "Again, never say never." He moved slowly toward Chuck. "For too long, I've been the faithful servant, helping others achieve their own riches. Now it's my turn." He reached into his pocket, and removed a small vial. "This is my ticket."

Chuck kept eye contact firmly on Deloski, making sure to betray the fact that Sarah was right behind him. So the Russian didn't realize the female CIA Agent was there until she kicked his legs out from underneath him. "Sarah! The vial!" he yelled, running up to try to take it from him.

Deloski got back to his feet and tried to barrel into Sarah, but she easily evaded him. She knocked him down again, sending him hurtling to the ground. As he fell, he released his grip on the vial, sending it flying.

Chuck ran to try to catch the vial, but it hit the ground before he could reach it, releasing the deadly Agent into the air.

* * *

><p><em>I've got one more short chapter left, which should be going up tomorrow. We're almost there!<em>


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18 - Epilogue**

_February 7, 2011__. __11:00 AM__, Casa Bartowski _

"So the gas was inert?"

"Completely," Chuck answered. He took another sip of coffee, and watched his companion do the same. "I was sure we were finished when that vial broke," he admitted. "I didn't know how to react. Sarah told me I jumped on top of her, as if I could protect her from the gas like that. Pretty stupid, huh?"

"Love isn't always rational," responded Mary Gunter Bartowski.

"I guess not. I'm still not really sure why we weren't killed."

Mary smiled somewhat sadly. "Because he did it after all."

"Who?" Chuck asked in confusion.

"Your father. Long ago, he had the chance to develop something that would generate a chemical change, making the Agent harmless. He was told not to, but I guess he did anyway."

Chuck began to understand. "The second sensor." His eyes narrowed, and he reached over to the side table to grab the reason he'd asked his mother to visit. "Then this actually was true?"

Mary looked surprised when she saw the notebook. "How did you get that?"

"Ellie found it with Dad's things. At first I thought it was a true story, then I wasn't so sure, but it details the Klebichok agent, and how he created those sensors."

Chuck's mother took the notebook and leafed through it. "Oh it's true. To some extent." She paused. "But the names are different in here. How did you know it was him. Or me?"

Chuck pointed to his head. "The Intersect."

Mary laughed. "Of course. He _would_ do that."

Chuck went to the kitchen to retrieve the coffee pot, and refilled the two mugs. "So you two really had a mission like that? With the Klebichok Agent? Romanova?"

"There was a mission. Our first one together, actually, back when he worked as an independent contractor the CIA. And yes, it involved the Klebichok Agent. There was never a Romanova though." After a sip of coffee, Mary explained. "Believe it or not, your father had a bit of a creative side, so he decided he wanted to try his hand at writing. He took some elements of missions that actually had happened, changed the names, and then embellished a bit."

"And what about Roan?"

Mary laughed. "It's a funny thing about your father. He never saw himself as a real hero, even when he was defusing bombs or retrieving chemical weapons. I always tried to tell him he was, but he never believed me. He had this idea that a true hero would be someone like Roan Montgomery." Her tone was faintly mocking when she pronounced the name. "He followed Roan's career, and patterned his character after what he thought Roan was really like. Of course, had he ever actually met the man, he might have changed his mind," she added ruefully.

Chuck decided the less he knew about any encounters between Roan and his mother, the better. "Don't you want to hold on to it?" he asked, when Mary handed the notebook back to him.

"It's yours. He gave it to you – one final gift from him."

Chuck nodded, finally understanding.

* * *

><p><em>February 7, 2011<em>_. __7:00 PM__, Casa Bartowski_

"Hmm," Chuck said, studying the little piece of paper.

"What is it?" Sarah asked as deftly picked up another piece of Kung Pao chicken with her chopsticks.

"My fortune. 'Don't just live for today, because tomorrow never dies.' Geez, these things keep getting more and more obscure."

"You were expecting another message from your father?"

Chuck shrugged. "Not even secret fortune cookie communiques would surprise me at this point. I guess I never really knew him that well."

"Well, your Mom was right," Sarah responded. "That's why he left that story for you to find. To get to know him better. See a different side of him."

"You mean the side that lied to the government about deactivating a chemical weapon?"

"The side that does what he believes in, no matter what the consequences," Sarah corrected. "Apparently, that runs in the family. And actually, I was referring to Steve Bartowski, amateur writer."

"Yeah, I'm not sure that part's going to run in the family. I don't see myself as the writer type. Though when I told Morgan about it, he seemed pretty excited. He said he was going to turn one of our missions into a screenplay."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "I think the General might have some concerns about that."

"That's what I said. He told me she'd have to relent if he made her character 30 years younger, and played by Megan Fox."

Sarah rolled her eyes as she cracked open her own fortune. "These _are_ confusing. 'Your family and friends are your quantum of solace.'" She put the fortune aside. "Where _is_ Morgan this evening?"

"Dinner at Casey's. Alex is trying to make peace between them."

"It's good that Casey is willing to give Morgan a chance."

"I guess you do whatever you can when you're a father. Whether it's humoring your daughter's boyfriend or writing semi-fictionalized novellas with encoded messages for your kids."

"That's why I know you'll be such a great father." Sarah smiled. "And yes, I have thought about what it will be like when we have kids. Little curly-haired boys running around, getting into trouble."

"Or cute blonde girls, being the life of the playground."

Sarah took her fiancee's hand. "I'll be ready soon, I promise. But I think we should take some time to enjoy being married first."

"Even if I'm more Steve Bartowski than Roan Montgomery?"

"_Because_ you're more Steve Bartowski than Roan Montgomery. You know, Alex can have her James Bond fantasies. I'll stick with the real thing." Sarah stood up, and headed away from the kitchen. "Are you coming, Mr. Bartowski?"

"Coming where?"

"To do what those Bond movies never actually show," she smirked.

"Be right there." As he finished putting away the dishes, he looked over at the living room table, where the notebook sat. "Thanks, Dad," he said quietly, then headed off to the bedroom.

**The End**

* * *

><p><strong>Chuck Bartowski will return<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Well there you have it. I tried to keep this one moving at a pretty quick pace, and hopefully I succeeded. I don't think I did as good a job with the 70's setting though, other than the occasional pop culture reference.<em>

_I hope everybody enjoyed it, and I thank you for sticking by the story from beginning to end._

_I've added a list of all of the Bond references in the next chapter. I managed to sneak in almost all of the Bond titles in, other than "Goldeneye" (too many "gold" titles to work in easily) and "Moonraker" (lousy movie, lousy title)._

_Thanks again, and as always, please review to let me know what you thought of the story!_

.


	20. List of Bond References

So, requested by no one, here is a list of James Bond references in this story. Most are pretty obvious, but I figured, what the heck.

Needless to say, this also works as a list of things that I don't own.

**Story Title (From Burbank With Love)**

Of course, a take-off of "From Russia With Love" – and yes, apparently the title of an episode of the cartoon "Animaniacs".

**Chapter 1**

- The whole opening scene is a nod to the beginning of pretty much every James Bond movie. There's always an action sequence that has absolutely nothing to do with the plot of the rest of the movie.

- "Oh, he had an early flight." – Cheesy one-liner about bad guy death #1

- "Oh, Roan" – Pretty much self-explanatory. In about every Bond flick, a beautiful girl utters "Oh, James" in her best PG-13 voice.

_- "Nobody does it better_

_Makes me feel sad for the rest_

_Nobody does it half as good as you_

_Baby, you're the best."_

I wanted to jump into the theme song like the Bond flicks do, so I borrowed one of them ("The Spy who Loved Me" – originally recorded by Carly Simon). The part about Morgan dancing behind a silhouette screen was supposed to evoke the images you see of female silhouettes in the title screen of Bond movies, but I'm not sure I described it well enough to make that clear.

**Chapter 2**

- Miss Sparchange – Of course, a nod to Miss Moneypenny, M's secretary who flirts endlessly with James Bond

- _Roan untied his scarf, and tossed it toward the hat rack. The scarf landed a hook, and hung there snugly – _James Bond routinely tosses his hat right onto the top of the hat rack in M's office. Roan does him one better – scarves are less aerodynamic.

- The Director is of course just like M, Bond's long-suffering and occasionally female boss. I drew the line at giving him a letter name though.

- The briefing scene is pretty much straight out of the beginning of every Bond movie.

- The Klebichok agent – The name is a cross between Elsa Klebb, the SPECTRE agent in "From Russia with Love" with the slightly dangerous footwear, and Novichok agents, which were chemical weapons actually developed in the Soviet Union (at least according to Wikipedia).

_- "For your eyes only, Bartowski. We've got a meeting at Castle in an hour." – _Bond title reference #1

**Chapter 3**

- Steve Bartowski is a stand-in (at least at the start, his role eventually grows) for Q, the techie in the Bond movies played by the late Desmond Llewellyn.

- Reference to Steve's predecessor, Doctor Llewellyn – see above.

_- "Well, for one of my last missions, I got a briefcase with 40 rounds of ammo, tear gas, and a knife hidden inside." – _A description of one of Bond's toys, from "From Russia With Love"

_- "Don't you have anything useful? Say, a jetpack or something?" – _Another gadget, from "Thunderball"

_- "As a matter of fact," he said giving her the full once over, "how about a Tom Collins? Exactly two ice cubes, freshly squeezed lemon juice, and one Marischino cherry – as long as it was harvested from the state of Washington in the past two months." – _The obligatory spoof of the vodka martini, shaken not stirred. The drink is ridiculous, and really a figment of Steve Bartowski's imagination. When Chuck meets Roan later on, he's actually drinking a martini.

- Character name, Alexis Romanova_ – _Named after Tatiana Romanova, the Bond girl from "From Russia With Love"

_- "Idiot," Casey grumbled. "You know, Bartowski, sometimes I wonder why don't just knock the living daylights out of you." – _Bond title reference #2

**Chapter 4**

- Chapter Title - On Her Majesty's Secret Service's Nerves - I didn't think I'd get to work in the title anywhere in the story, so I just threw it in here

- Character name, Lottie Banginton – Yeah, I couldn't resist one character name along the lines of Pussy Galore and Plenty O'Toole

- Character name, Senator James Felix – Felix taken from Felix Leiter, the CIA Agent that appears periodically through the James Bond canon

- Character name, Terence Hamilton – Name taken from Terence Young and Guy Hamilton, who between them directed about seven different Bond movies

_- Sarah waved her right hand at him, flashing her ring. "I thought I already got you. Diamonds are forever, right?"_ – Bond title reference #3

**Chapter 5**

- Character name, Ilya Amasova – Named from Anya Amasova, Bond girl from "The Spy Who Loved Me," played by Barbara Bach

_- Charlotte followed Roan's gaze. "Is that a fez?" she asked_. – Nod to the character Odd Job, Goldfinger's mute henchman with the bowler

_- "I'd say your song is over"_ – Cheesy one-liner about bad guy death #2

_- "Yes, hello. This is room 1007. I'd like to order room service. Duck a l'Orange, a bottle of Chateau le Chiffre, 1967. Bring it up as soon as you can, and just leave the cart by the door." – _Reference to le Chiffre, the villain from 'Casino Royale,' the first version of which was released in 1967.

_- "…And there's this new QB we've just recruited. Awesome arm. They're already calling him 'The Man with the Golden Gun' on campus. And then the whole defensive line is returning next year, and…" – _Bond title reference #4

**Chapter 6**

_- A moment later, there was a loud whoosh as the Rolls exploded in the middle of the street. –_ Alas, it's not particularly healthy to be the first Bond girl in a movie. Sorry, Lottie.

_- "Look, shouldn't you be having this conversation with the spy who supposedly loves you?" - _Bond title reference #5

**Chapter 7**

- Character name, Gert Masterson – A combination of the names of Gert Frobe, the actor who played Auric Goldfinger, and Jill Masterson, Goldfinger's paint-covered victim

_- As he ran into the house, he heard Morgan say, "Do you expect me to talk?"_

"_No Mr. Grimes. I expect you to strip!" – _A blatant ripoff of the infamous exchange between Bond and Goldfinger

_- "Well, Agent McHugh, perhaps we should play a little game. I like to call it…Thunderball." – _An extremely unsubtle Bond title reference #6

**Chapter 8**

_- There were even a few females covered in gold paint – _Another reference to the fate of Jill Masterson

_- Roan had prepared an alias before entering the party, but he now decided that "Hilary Gray" would have to wait_. – Hilary Gray was the alias Bond used in "On her Majesty's Secret Service"

_- "I didn't want to at first. But when I got older, I realized that it was in my blood. I went to Oxford, then the Academy, and a couple of years later got my license to kill."_ – Bond title reference #7

**Chapter 9**

_- "Things got a little out of hand at Bennigan's," Lester replied, his hand rubbing the black patch covering one eye._ – A nod to Largo, the eye patch-wearing villain from "Thunderball"

_- "Oh," Jeff said, once the complicated metal contraption had been removed from his mouth. "Last night totally rocked." – _and a nod to Jaws, the henchman from "The Spy Who Loved Me" and "Moonraker" who probably funded the college funds of multiple orthodontists' kids

_- "What, we find out there's an Octomom sex tape out there, and you expect us not to download it?" Lester objected._

_- "Yeah, I just wanted to see her octop-" – _Bond title reference #8, and I'm sorry.

_- "His name is Strannaya Deloski, which apparently is loosely translated into 'he who takes on strange tasks.'"_ - It is a very loose translation for 'Odd Job'

**Chapter 10**

- The whole first scene is essentially a take-off of every casino scene in every Bond movie.

- Character name – Rudolf Adagio: A take-off of Largo, the villain from "Thunderball"

- Character name – Hubert Trax: A take-off of Hugo Drax, the villain from "Moonraker"

- Character name – Carlo Hamburg: A take-off of Karl Stromberg, the villain from "Moonraker"

_- Casey nodded. "Whatever is going on in there, I want no part of it. It's almost as bad as listening to Jeffster without earmuffs." _– A nod to one of the most dated lines of dialogue throughout the Bond movies, where Sean Connery compared a noise to listening to the Beatles without earmuffs. Casey's version is a bit more understandable.

_- It was a white cat, its hackles up, flashing its teeth._ – A reference to Bond supervillain Blofeld's pet cat

_- "I promised Bologna that I'd take Miss Jinxie McLazenby to Pussycats Galore today to get her shots"_ – Pussycats Galore is of course a reference to Bond Girl Pussy Galore. The cat's name came from "Jinx", the Bond Girl played by Halle Barry in "Die Another Day", and of George Lazenby, the one-time James Bond portrayer in "On Her Majesty's Secret Service"

_- "You're going to use all nine of those lives to torment me, ain't ya? Well, I've got bad news, that's all a lie. You only live once. Twice, maybe, if you're lucky."_ - Bond title reference #9, (You Only Live Twice)

**Chapter 11 **(As you can see, by this point I started focusing more on pushing the plot along, and there are fewer references)

- The ski chase scene is a nod to those from "On Her Majesty's Secret Service," "For Your Eyes Only", "The Spy Who Loved Me" and probably a few others. As is the lousy marksmanship of the bad guys.

_- "… these skaters from Russia, with the love they show on the rink, it's just…amazing?" _– A somewhat labored Bond title reference #10

**Chapter 12**

_- I've turned away so many shifts at the hospital, they've started calling me 'Doctor No.'" _– Bond title reference #11

**Chapter 13. **

- Chapter title: I'd Rather be Underneath the Mango Tree - A reference to the song sung by Ursula Andress in 'Dr. No'

- Organization: Lazenby Holdings - Reference to George Lazenby. Yup I forgot I already referenced him.

- Organization: Osata Technology - reference to Mr. Osato, villain from "You Only Live Twice"

- Organization: Tananga Products Worldwide – reference to Kananga, villain from "Live and Let Die"

- Organization: SPIRITE – the goofy acronym is a reference to SPECTRE (SPecial Executive for Counter-intelligence, Terrorism, Revenge and Extortion) as well as the awkward way they needed to get the acronym to work

- Beckman's emergence from the water, and her white bikini, are both references to Ursula Andress's first appearance in "Dr. No"

_- "Well, I think we may need to intercede out there, or we're going to have an unobstructed view to a killing."_ – Bond title reference #11

**Chapter 14**

_- "Well, what did you expect? Their offices to be inside a volcano?"_ – A reference to Blofeld's lair in "You Only Live Twice"

- Character name: Winton Brandt: References to Mr. Wint (villain from "Diamonds are Forever") and Helga Brandt (bad Bond girl from "You Only Live Twice)

_- "Mr. Trevelyan," Roan responded, handing the other man the business card he'd had prepared earlier in the day_ – Alec Trevelyan was the villain played by Sean Bean in "Goldeneye"

_- "Vesper! Come in. You there?"_ – Vesper Lynde is the Bond Girl in "Casino Royale"

_- "So, everything ok? Whaddya say we just live and let live, huh?"_

_Casey smirked. "Live wasn't the word I was thinking of. But our priority is to find the Klebichok agent. You can die another day."_ –Bond title reference #12 and #12.5 if you count the partial reference to "Live and Let Die"

**Chapter 15**

- The scuba-diving was intended to invoke the action sequence in "Thunderball", though I managed to leave out the action

_- "Quite the tiger in the sack. She had these…golden fingers, let's just say."_ – Bond title reference #13

**Chapter 16**

- Needless to say, this is meant to evoke the clichéd "Villain reveals his plan thinking he has Bond trapped" scene

- Romanova's fondness for sharks was meant to be a reference to Largo's piranha, and all the other deadly animal scenes throughout the Bond movies

- The use of the harpoon gun is a reference to how Largo is killed in "Thunderball"

_- "Goodbye, Mr. Montgomery."_ – A reference to the many "Goodbye Mr. Bonds" that didn't turn out to be as final as planned

_- "Oh, he's hanging around with some chum."_ - Cheesy one-liner about bad guy death #3

_- "Hey, as soon as I saw there was a horse named Encino Royale, I knew it was fate." _– Bond title reference #13

**Chapter 17**

- The timer counting down is a reference to the inevitable bomb countdown from numerous films. I left out the red wire/blue wire at least.

- The President walking in on Roan and Beckman was meant to evoke the awkward interruption of Bond in the act that seemed to happen at the end of most Bond films (like "The Spy Who Loved Me")

_- "You talk?" he blurted out _– Similar to the scene where Jaws finally speaks at the end of "Moonraker"

_- Deloski chuckled. "Again, never say never."_ - Bond title reference #14, to the unofficial "Never Say Never Again"

**Chapter 18**

_- "My fortune. 'Don't just live for today, because tomorrow never dies.' Geez, these things keep getting more and more obscure." –_ Bond title reference #15

_- "That's what I said. He told me she'd have to relent if he made her character 30 years younger, and played by Megan Fox."_ – Supposedly, Megan Fox was offered a role as a Bond girl, and turned it down

_- Sarah rolled her eyes as she cracked open her own fortune. "These are confusing. 'Your family and friends are your quantum of solace.'" –_ Bond title reference #16

_- "To do what those Bond movies never actually show," she smirked._ – They are PG-13, after all.

- _Chuck Bartowski will return_ – "James Bond will return" is seen in the end credits of all Bond films


End file.
